


i've sunshine enough to spread

by The_Lionheart



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: AU: A Better World, AU: No Crimson King, AU: No Existential Danger, AU: No John Farson, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Assassins, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Good Things Happening To Poor Cuthbert, M/M, Magic, Magician Apprentices, Marten Gonna Mart, Marten/Walter/Randall is his own warning, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Intrigue, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Post-Apocalypse, Rebuilding, Slow Romance, Spies & Secret Agents, Spoilers for the entire Dark Tower Series, Steven Deschain's Famous Parenting Skills, court intrigue, minorest character Thomas Whitman (is not an OC)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-02-26 01:57:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: Maybe, every time, Roland got it a little more right. Maybe every time, things got a little better. Maybe every time the old victories remained, and the new ones added on. Maybe it got to the point where things started fixing themselves without even trying.~ ~ ~ ~ ~Maybe Arthur Eld was the promised hero-king, wresting the world out of the grip of postwar chaos. Maybe Arthur Eld saved the world, and this time itstayedsaved. Maybe things are very, very different in a Gilead without the encroaching horror and degeneracy of the Crimson King.~ ~ ~ ~ ~Maybe many things are different.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Dean Martin's "Ain't That A Kick In The Head."  
> Chapter 1 warnings/tags: Unrequited crushes, pining, hormones everywhere, Stupid Sexy Tommy  
> Chapter 2 tags/warnings: Stupid Sexy Tommy, additional unrequited love, mention of ableism, nonverbal/low-verbal characters, autistic gunslingers, implied/referenced child abuse  
> Chapter 3 tags/warnings: good ol fashioned medieval misogyny, some vaguely distressing references to things, some mention of food-related sensory issues/disordered eating

The wedding bells are still ringing- aye, and look to be for some time, for they sing of a joyous occasion for the only heir of Gilead's dinh- when Cuthbert is summoned to one side by the very dinh himself, father of Cuthbert's best and oldest friend. 

"You should be celebrating, sai, it's your son's wedding," Cuthbert says lightly enough, knowing that there is no space here for Steven Deschain to make a scene or show his displeasure at Cuthbert's pertness. Cuthbert smiles a little. He loves Roland, he does, which is why he does not  _ personally  _ think of this wedding- the marriage of the highest-born teenager in the entirety of the Affiliated Baronies, a literal prince, to the only daughter of someone who could kindly be called the highest-ranked working man in the sleepiest and smallest seaside Barony within it- as yet another blow against Steven’s machinations in the war of pettiness between him and Cuthbert himself. 

But Steven clearly thinks it is, and that paranoid fury is its own reward. Cuthbert’s smile widens as Steven says nothing for several long seconds. Steven- as the closest their loose collection of city-states may call a king- is one of the very few people who could, in polite society, do such a thing to Cuthbert Allgood.

Among friends, of course, such laughably arbitrary ideas as rank do not exist, but this is not a meeting of friends, no. Cuthbert is the closest to an equal that Roland Deschain has, at least in theory, and only an accident of birth order- Cuthbert’s grandfather born just moments after his twin- prevented Cuthbert from being the future ruler and Roland from being the right-hand and spymaster of his one-day court. 

Privately, Cuthbert thinks it is better this way. He will do alright as a king and a general, for sure, but the very idea of Roland- quiet and unimaginative and serious as he is- being the face of Gilead’s ambassadorship and master of its hidden spy network? If Cuthbert weren’t promised to be on his best behavior for Ro’s special day, he’d laugh right here and now. 

Steven regards him evenly, before glancing out towards his son, dancing with beautiful fair-haired Susan Delgado amongst all their friends and family and the courtiers of Gilead and all the assorted nobles of New Canaan. It is a lovely sight, and all the lovelier because of Cuthbert’s hand in arranging it. 

“We are to receive an ambassador within the week,” Steven says abruptly. “The Troitan tribes have united, it seems.”

“Yes,” Cuthbert says cautiously- this was one of the first things he confirmed, once he was back from Mejis. “There’s been talk of such for years, now. It’s curious that they have managed to succeed at last.”

“Not so curious,” Steven says dismissively. “They have been united under the banner of the Jarl of Clan Grissom. Clan Grissom, it is said, now wields weaponry of staggering power and ability, and is aided with some form of foresight beyond the normal abilities of their hedge-witches and barbarian tricksters. The ambassador himself is a thegn- the son of a ranked advisor, apparently.”

Cuthbert glances over at him, waiting. Steven does not betray what he feels about this situation, at least not visibly. 

“He’s about your age,” he says at last. “In terms of blood nobility, he is quite probably barely above a freehold farmer, but in those savage tribes he might be considered of a status with your ka-mates.” 

Cuthbert tenses; Alain Johns and Jamie DeCurry are, in fact, at the heart of their little feud, and any word against them draws forth the very worst in Cuthbert. Steven avoids mentioning them further, though. 

“He will be here to present the terms of a treaty between the united Troitan tribes and New Canaan, though it is unclear at this time if they have yet adopted written language,” Steven says coolly. “There is talk of establishing an advantageous marriage or two, and of allowing the free movement of our people in their lands and of allowing any of their folk who might want to enter civilization to settle within our cities.”

“Ah,” Cuthbert says brightly. It’s a clever enough proposition, for a tribal people without access to the goods and safety of their own cities. “So it falls to me to organize a little soiree, perhaps? A Welcoming Feast, perhaps a fruit basket containing representative goods from the distant corners of our homey little land-”

It is a joke, which is not typically within the range of things Steven Deschain is clever or quick enough to understand. He merely glances sidelong at Bert, as if disgusted by the prospect of showing the Troitans such familiar hospitality. 

“You are to uncover everything there is to uncover about Thegn Grissom. You are to learn everything that he knows- and much, indeed, of what he might guess- regarding the weapons and tools used to elevate his clan to power. And if at any point you find that he is, however clumsily, acting against our interests…” Steven trails off. It doesn’t need to be said. Cuthbert, like the rest of their ka-tet, is a gunslinger, but there is another role that the dinh’s right hand plays: master of spies, yes, and master of assassins. Only Cuthbert has no access to the ranks of either yet: Bert, it is clear, will have to be the one to kill the thegn if treachery is discovered. 

Cuthbert regards Steven for a moment, his mouth twisting into a smile. “Is the thegn not the son or nephew of this… Jarl Grissom, then?” 

“There are more than two dozen ranked persons named Grissom, and another three dozen known children younger than twelve by that name,” Steven says dismissively. “Some will be blood relatives, or bastard children, but the Troitans are known to award clan names to adoptees and favored captives. Most likely he is the son of a sibling or cousin. It matters little in the end, though. Fool enough to think his parentage would matter, but surely you’re not foolish enough to let the Troitans think the thegn was murdered.”

“Are you  _ so  _ sure that he will die, then?” Cuthbert asks, genuinely curious, and Steven snorts derisively. 

“The untested sixteen-year-old son of some general’s aide? At this point I am not so sure that he can read or write more than his own name, Cuthbert. There is no reason to think that he could pose such a threat, no. You must prepare for it regardless.” 

With that, Steven leaves, quite abruptly- in anyone who wasn’t part of Bert’s ka-tet, it’d be unforgivable, and it is only Steven’s status as dinh that prevents Cuthbert from demanding that he return and give a proper farewell. Cuthbert smiles faintly at the thought of doing so anyway, then turns to watch Roland dance.

He’s never  _ seen  _ Roland so brilliantly, luminously happy. It’s almost enough to burn away the growing feeling of cold unease at the task that’s been laid before him. 

Cuthbert makes his meandering way around the Great Hall, hoping to shake Alain or Jamie out of whatever spot they’ve been celebrating from- of his three ka-mates, not a single one of them enjoys a party or a crowd like this, and while Roland’s role as the happy groom means he cannot avoid it today, their friends are likely lurking in some shadowed corner. Bert pauses next to a serving-girl in a simple but glittering shift, holding a huge tray bearing flutes of sparkling wine imported from the Western Baronies- she looks short and slim, and the fact that she can carry such a weight is frankly astounding. 

“A drink, sai?” she asks in the mild, unaccented tones of one who grew up in the backwater outer Baronies and is trying very hard to appear genteel.

“Why, I would be a wretch and the very picture of an ingrate if I refused to relieve such a pretty lady of some of this burden!” he proclaims, and an old man nearby chortles a laugh. The girl doesn’t, merely raising one eyebrow at him as the old man- ah, Bert recognizes his signet ring, that must be old Lord Malatesta- comes closer, leaning heavily on a finely-made ironwood cane. 

“I say, I’ve not heard such a well-turned silver tongue at work since the last time I was called to breakfast!” Lord Malatesta says heartily, and laughs at his own joke. It’s not a particularly funny joke, but the man’s good humor is deeply infectious, and Bert catches himself grinning- and what’s more, catches the serving-girl trying to hide a smile, herself. Lord Malatesta beams at them, before tilting his head at Bert. “Surely I know your name, lad, if you give me but a moment-”

“Sai, you looked to be quite thirsty,” the girl says pointedly. “The wine is ice-chilled, and I’m told it’s an excellent year.” 

“Why, this isn’t the Lord Allgood, is it?” Lord Malatesta booms, peering closer at Bert’s face. “Nay, nay, this is not young Lord Robert, why, you must be his little boy!”

“Well, yes, sai, the Duke is my father,” Bert agrees. “My name is Cuthbert, Lord Malatesta.”

“Eh? Eh? Why, clever  _ and  _ charming? I’d say bless you, lad, but clearly you’ve blessed your father’s house already!” the old man says, chortling. Cuthbert huffs a small laugh despite himself, and Lord Malatesta winks outrageously. “Wouldn’t you say he’s a clever and charming young man, miss?”

“T’wouldn’t be my place to say so, sai,” the girl says coolly, still fighting the urge to smile at the old man. Cuthbert mentally runs through a checklist- the Lord Malatesta, twin sons and a single daughter, the Lady Valentina Malatesta dead the past twenty years now but no rumor or sign that he ever sought a new wife or gilly in all that time, the daughter lost- married once to a gunslinger, dead or run away with some other man since Cuthbert was a boy, the sons sharing the practical ruling of the seaside Barony of Argenbie Hold while the Lord spends most of his time abroad in his old age. In all likelihood, not a threat to this girl, servant or otherwise, but one never knows anymore. 

Cuthbert shoots him his smoothest smile. “You seem to be enjoying yourself very much, Lord Malatesta.”

“Aye, so I am!” he agrees heartily, stamping his cane down onto the flagstone floor. “‘Tis a lovely wedding, of course, but I received news just today that some of my kin will be coming to visit, aye, kinfolk I don’t get to see too often now! Isn’t that lovely, then?”

“Yes, very lovely, sai,” the girl says, and when Bert catches her eye she smiles blandly, nothing at all like the charming, hidden smile fighting to be let loose. “You wanted a drink, sai? One for you and one for your two friends?”

“Oh- yes, indeed,” Cuthbert says, a touch regretfully- it isn’t often he gets to speak with one of the Affiliation’s elder nobility and have it go so pleasantly. Ah, well. He deftly wrangles four flutes of sparkling wine off of her tray. “One for me, I think, and one for each of my ka-mates, for they’ve gone and spirited themselves into some corner somewhere out of the public eye, I do believe.”

“And then another one for you, eh?” Lord Malatesta chuckles, and Bert can’t help but give the old man a wink, which sends the old fellow into a gale of sprightly laughter. “Aye, I see you, lad, I see you very well! Please do remember to pass my greetings onto your parents, I must not have seen them since you were just, oh, so high-” He holds a hand out perhaps around waist height or lower, for he is a tall man for all that he’s becoming stooped with age. “But give my greetings all the same, if you will, and press young Lord Robert and the Lady to call on my house for a proper luncheon once they visit Argenbie Hold again, eh?”

"Of course,” Cuthbert agrees quickly- the old man looks to be about ready to start expounding upon the virtues of his home Barony, or perhaps go into detail about what such a luncheon might include. Bert can certainly see the value in visiting, if everyone in the Malatesta house is so lively, but- ah, well, perhaps his parents can go. He’s sure he’ll have many things to keep him occupied in Gilead, with the arrival of the Troitan thegn. 

Cuthbert carries the wine until he spots a likely-enough spot- behind a broad pillar, hung with a brilliant royal-blue tapestry bearing the Deschain coat of arms. Sure enough, he spots his bosom companions and ka-mates there, Alain sitting on a chair with his fingers picking nervously at the knee of his pants, Jamie standing against the stone wall with his arms crossed over his front. 

“Enjoying the party, boys?” Bert asks brightly, handing them each their own drink before tipping one of his down his throat. He carefully places the glass aside, crouching down with his arms over his thighs, and takes a smaller sip of the second, savoring it. “Oh, the girl was right, it’s quite good year, isn’t it?”

“Mm, yes, I suppose,” Alain says distractedly, his round, pink face shining with a light coat of sweat. Bert regards him sympathetically- crowds will do this to him, and loud noises, and this day has been an overwhelming assortment of both. Alain meets his eyes, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Not so. I did fine at the Welcoming Party out in Hambry, didn’t I?”

“My dear Al, that Party wasn’t even a quarter the size of this, and besides all that, you didn’t do very fine at all,” Bert laughs, and Alain snorts and gently smacks his knee with one hand. “Oh, struck down in the height of my youth and beauty, just for speaking the truth? See you very well, Jamie-”

“No,” Jamie says flatly, turning his face away and pretending to sip at his wine. Cuthbert claps his empty hand over his heart, earning a small grin from Alain. 

“Oh! Betrayed on all sides, woe to me, such a beautiful and charming and elegant-”   
  
“And very loud, too,” Jamie grumbles, saying more in the space of five minutes than he’s probably said the rest of the day put together. Bert beams at him, and he rolls his brilliant grey eyes. It must be a very good day indeed, an uncommonly restful and beautiful one, for their Jamie to speak so. Bert opens his mouth to say so, and Alain gently smacks his knee again.

“What did Lord Deschain want?” he asks, and Bert’s mouth quirks into a sardonic half-smile. 

“Oh, apparently I’m to be on my best behavior, there’s a visiting ambassador next week,” he says smoothly, and Alain and Jamie, who know by now what Bert means by such statements, both sigh at him. Cuthbert reaches over and gives Alain a gentle pat, before finishing off the rest of his second flute of wine. “It’s alright. It’s what I’m for, isn’t it?”

“I should say not,” Alain says severely, laying his hand over Bert’s. “Jamie and I will beg off our tutoring, then, and help you in your task. All the sooner we can say you’ve completed your work and will be free to do as we’ve planned.”

“That is a fantastic idea,” Cuthbert says warmly, before standing. “Ah, now- you two hold the fort, eh? Time for the Best Man to put in an appearance, else they’ll all wonder where I’ve run off to.”

Alain gives him another pat, and Jamie a swift, brief nod. Cuthbert smiles faintly at them before entering the circle of dancers, and it is only very much later that he thinks to wonder how a mere serving-girl knew the number of his ka-tet. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Roland and Susan have him for dinner in their charmingly-sized and well-appointed apartment the night before the arrival of the ambassador’s traveling party. The dinner is an interesting mix- Mejis-style pan-seared and breaded fish on a bed of finely-diced local greens, simple rice, and a chunky, overly herbal fruit salsa. The greens and the fruits are both a touch bitter, and the salsa’s herbs and the fish’s spices are from two entirely different styles of cooking, but Bert devours it messily, for Susan tells him, after laying down the plate, that this is Roland’s second attempt at helping her make a meal, and isn’t it so lovely?

Personally, Bert thinks love makes it taste a little better than it might otherwise, but after watching Roland’s face flush prettily over his bride’s praise, he can’t help but agree that it is an arresting meal and very enjoyable besides. The three of them wash it down with a pitcher of a fresh fruit sangria- that, Bert knows, must be Susan’s doing alone, for it is perfect, exactly the same as the one that was served to them at the Mejisian Welcoming Feast. 

“I meant to ask you,” Roland says after dinner is done and the three of them have cleaned up after themselves. He looks and sounds drunker than he ought to, on that amount of wine- ah, but he’s leaned up against his statuesque young wife, his cheek against her shoulder, his hand tangled in hers. Susan catches Cuthbert looking and gives him a soft smile, which he returns.

“What did you want to ask, Ro?” Cuthbert asks, a little sleepily. It was a fine enough meal, at that. He could see himself happily spending the rest of the evening in a sleepy haze if he weren’t meant to be preparing for the ambassador’s arrival- and, it seems, he and Roland are of a same mind still, at least in that one regard.

“The official visit, from the Troitan tribesmen,” Roland says, sitting up a little and fixing his pale-sky eyes on Bert’s face. “I suppose my father’s already appointed you the official liaison, but-”

“He has,” Cuthbert says, and, a little wryly, “perhaps he felt that you were too preoccupied to ask me yourself?”

“He has his own political advisors and representatives,” Roland says, a little sulkily. “Doesn’t seem proper for him to have asked you in my place, either.  _ We’d _ have liked to have you over for dinner again this week.”

“Oh, and who’s asking favors out of turn now, then?” Susan asks playfully, giving his ribs a nudge. She meets Bert’s eyes with a far-too-amused glimmer in her smile- Susan, they all know, cares less than nothing for the supposed intricacies of courtly procedure, and in all likelihood did not know that the lady of a household is the one to extend invitations prior to her arrival in Gilead three months past. “I don’t suppose it will be considered proper to have you drag the poor ambassador here for a dinner, will it? For we should very much like to see more of you, and of dear Alain and Jamie, Cuthbert.”

“You suppose right, Sue, it simply isn’t done,” Bert bemoans, delighting in her soft giggling laugh. “Why, just imagine the chaos that would reign if I went about carelessly inviting strange foreigners into your house, what would the society ladies say?”

“I think you know what we care for what the society ladies say,” Susan says, wrapping an arm ‘round Roland’s narrow shoulders and tucking him close against the warmth of her body. Cuthbert does not sigh at the sight of it, though he does catch himself gazing a little overlong, a little more than is friendly. He raises his eyes and Susan, it seems, catches him looking again, and there is a small, knowing curl to that sweet smile of hers. “You seem tired, Cuthbert, shouldn’t you spend the night resting here? It’s a big day for you, tomorrow.”

“Alas, but that’s why I cannot stay,” he says, and he really does regret saying so, for the sight of his best and oldest friend held warm and safe and loved by the love of his young life is deeply stirring, and deeply bittersweet, and he knows that he could never have had either one of them, and yet it seems particularly unfair now to be reminded of this. Bert gives them one last, fond smile, standing.

“I must take my leave of you, dear friends. It is, after all, a big day for me tomorrow.” 

His feet take him on a short journey- to the castle walls, where guardsmen watch the comings and goings of all those who visit Gilead. The torches are not as bright up along the breezy walkway, high over the gate- itself brightly lit, with what electric lights as they can support- and there are other people walking there and enjoying the moonlight, or watching the incoming visitors below. 

Cuthbert pauses, noting the rather large party below- clearly, the Troitans have arrived earlier than expected. Beside him, a taller man in a heavy cloak gestures down with one hand- not gloved, Cuthbert can see, but wrapped all about with strips of linen. He supposes the man could be a leper or some other diseased fellow, but when he speaks he sounds hale enough, if a touch younger than Bert expects.

“That’s only the back half of the party,” he says cheerfully, and Bert nods, before glancing over. “Been here an hour, so I shouldn’t expect everyone inside and settled til midnight, at least.”

“My word, is it really eleven?” Bert wonders aloud- by his internal count it’s closer to ten, but the man’s accent is an odd-sounding mix, half of it deeply unfamiliar, the other half oddly not. Bert makes an educated guess, casting a small smile at the cloaked man. “I suppose you came in with the front half, then?”

“Oh, aye, that I did!” he agrees, turning a little and reaching out- before drawing his hand back, making a small, embarrassed sound. “Oh, I can never remember, do your folk take hands in greeting or is it some other thing?”

“It depends,” Cuthbert says, offering his hand. “Bowing for high society and gentlefolk- curtseys for the ladies- and a kneel in certain situations, but a handshake works for most of us, you know.”

“So many rules,” the Troitan man laughs a little, taking Cuthbert’s hand- his grip is warm and firm, though not overly so, and he does not linger overlong the way some do. “Tell me, if you might, what happens to those of us who might forget? For I think my Mum’d be right devastated if I came back one-handed because I shook instead of bowing to the wrong fellow, aye, she would.”

“Oh, nothing so dramatic as that, truly,” Cuthbert laughs. “You might be the laughingstock of the court for an afternoon, if it was public enough, but we don’t go around lopping off hands for lapses in etiquette.” 

“In that case, I’m not going to do any kneeling if I can help it,” the man says confidentially. “It’s hell on the knees, it is.”

“You simply must give me advance notice, then, I can always do with a good laugh,” Cuthbert says, and the man laughs- a hearty, good-natured laugh, and again oddly familiar. It would be quite infectious, Bert thinks, if he weren’t already in something of a dour mood. It’s… not unpleasant, either, to speak freely with someone, to have someone speak freely to him, even though it’s only because this young man clearly doesn’t know who he is. 

“Alright, then, who should I be comically and pointedly not-kneelin’ for?” the man asks, and Bert chuckles a little at that. 

“Well, anyone introduced to you as Lord or Lady will likely expect a bow-”

“Aye, so a nice firm grip on them as is called Lords, then,” the man says, and even though it’s too dark to see his face under the hood Bert can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Most will kneel or bow to a Duke or a Duchess, though the Duke and Duchess here-” Bert pauses, thinking of his mother and father and what they would be alright with. “-are very kind and thoughtful people, and I should think you ought to do at the very least a respectful bow to them. And of course, the dinh himself- Lord Steven Deschain- will be… entirely less forgiving for anything indecorous. If you must save up all your kneeling for one, he’d be the one.”

“So  _ many  _ rules,” the man sighs again. “‘Tis a wonder anyone gets anything done amongst you, it is.”

“It’s not so bad,” Cuthbert says consolingly. “And you only have to remember all these rules and protocols while you’re in court or in the presence of noblemen. Why, you probably won’t have to remember any of the rules at all after the official welcome tomorrow!”

“Oh, aye, you say this, and then watch as it becomes a whole thing,” the man sighs, pouting audibly. He shakes off his hood, revealing only a little more of himself- enough that Bert can see smooth cheeks dusted with faint travel-scruff, and the glint of fine teeth under a large, beaky nose when the man flashes a smile at him. “Don’t suppose you can do anything about the weather, can you? Am quite used to it being fresh and cool, and if it’s this warm at night, why, I don’t know what I might do during the daytime.”

“Alas, we haven’t got a weather-witch or any such thing,” Cuthbert says, and the man- who now, Bert can see, really is closer to Bert’s own age- smiles at him again. “Say, might I ask you a question, then?”

“Oh, you might, though I suppose we’ll see if I have an answer,” the man says easily, leaning up against the ancient crenellation. Bert nods agreeably at that.

“I’ve heard that the ambassador is about our age, this Thegn Grissom- are you a part of his retinue, or-?”

“Oh, I- why, I, ah-” The Troitan seems intensely surprised, covering his mouth with his hand for a moment. “I suppose, broadly speaking, though I’d… never thought of it that way. Why, did you… have a question about, about-”

“Just curious to know if you knew him well,” Cuthbert says, shrugging. It makes sense that things would be a little more informal, among the Troitans, and it was a long shot in any rate that the other man would have met the Thegn. “What’s he look like, do you know?”

“Well,” the Troitan says, recovering nicely after the initial awkward pause. “He’s- he’s quite exactly my height, as a matter of fact, and bears his mother’s eyes, you know. All the tattoos of our Clan, and many of his own devising as well, for he is also a tattooist, when he isn’t… political, I suppose is the word for it.”

“Oh, is he?” Cuthbert asks, mildly interested, and the shadowed face of the Troitan man shows the glint of another broad grin.

“Oh, aye, he is, done a fair number of my own tattoos, he has,” the man says brightly. “Let’s see, let’s see- oh, I suppose you couldn’t see mine in this light, though, could you?” He sounds so disappointed that Bert chuckles again.   
  
“Well, it might be that I could see you again and have a look once you’re all settled in tomorrow,” Bert suggests, and the man nods a little.

“Aye, I suspect you’ll have a chance, at that. Will you be there, in the… Official Welcome?” the man asks, as if pointedly shaping his mouth around the words. 

“Oh, it won’t be a huge ordeal, I assure you. Only the lords and noblemen most closely involved with the upcoming treaty arrangements will be there, in all likelihood,” Cuthbert says, and the man tilts his head at him.

“Aye, but will  _ you  _ be there?” he asks softly, and Cuthbert waves a hand.   
  
“Don’t fret, I’ll make a point of hunting you down tomorrow so you can give me a look at those tattoos, alright?” 

“Oh? Only there’s quite a good number of them,” the man says, his voice dropping to a gently teasing tone. “Might take a few minutes of your time, aye.”

“I’m quite sure I can carve the time out of my schedule,” Cuthbert tells him, and he laughs, giving Cuthbert’s shoulder a companionable clap.

“We’ll see, then, we’ll see! Now I suppose I ought to be off and rejoin the rest of my party, aye, for my Mum and sisters will be worried most terribly if I seem to have wandered off. Good evening to you, Canaanite!”

“To you as well, Troitan,” Cuthbert offers, and he catches another flash- the glint of moonlight on teeth- before the man strides off, apparently knowing the way he means to go. Cuthbert watches him lope off into the shadows for a moment more, before turning and peering down at the large party of Troitans still making their way into the gates. There doesn't seem to be any sign of which small, covered wagon belongs to the ambassador, though, and Cuthbert catches himself in a yawn before long. While there  _ is  _ a sort of grim romanticism in the idea of becoming so weary that he pitches headlong to his untimely demise while waiting for the subject of his attention to appear, he must admit that he’s far too young and pretty to meet his end quite yet, and hurries to return to his sleeping quarters, just off the main barracks.  

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The Troitan party is late. Cuthbert finds this incredibly tiresome, but the sight of Steven Deschain growing more and more irritable is, at least, deeply- if privately- entertaining. 

The Court Magician’s eyes flick toward Cuthbert’s, and he does not smile at Marten Broadcloak, for the man is below him, and he is not required even to be polite to him. As if feeling the shape of his thoughts, Marten’s hands clench into fists, and Bert glances at the doorway again. If Marten can read his mind- and yes, he does suspect that is the case more often than not- it is no small pleasure to know that the old fraud must be painfully aware of what Bert thinks of him.

The doors finally pull open, and a group- very large, though by necessity nowhere near the size of the full Troitan traveling party- enters. Most are wearing thick, fur-lined cloaks, which must be terribly heated and humid even in Gilead’s late autumn. Several are tall- near or taller than the Troitan Cuthbert met last night- but there is quite an odd couple at the very back of the procession. The pair of them are quite mismatched in size- the lady a full foot or more shorter than her companion, lean and sharp-featured, the man striding confidently along behind her, walking with a staff nearly his own height that is much adorned with huge hawkfeathers and bits of glinting glass and any number of bizarre tribal fetishes. The lady’s face is very familiar; the man’s walk is a little moreso. Both of them are wearing richer cloaks, huge and shaggy with enormous gray-black wolf pelts, with some black material smudged around their eyes and streaking up into their huge manes of braided hair.

The lady says something in short, sharp tones to the court translator, who nods and speaks to the court in a high, clear voice.

“The- The Lady Grissom,” he says, faltering only slightly on the name, “And her brother, the Thegn Grissom, on behalf of the Jarl Grissom, bid thanks for this kind welcome, as well as your kindness in forgiving them their oversight in the matter of this ceremony’s start time.” 

“Of course,” Steven murmurs. Alain gently presses a finger to Cuthbert’s wrist, out of sight. 

_ She’s annoyed at her brother _ , he sends gently.  _ He became distracted and delayed the entire party. _

_ How inconsiderate _ , Bert marvels, and Alain agrees mutely. There is another quiet shuffling, and the Thegn steps forward. This close to, Cuthbert can see that he is shockingly barechested under the cloak- what he’d thought to be some kind of vest or patterned shirt is flesh, tattooed in blacks and blues and greens, all the way down to the waist of his knee-length leather- skirt?

_ Kilt _ , Alain sends him, feeling deeply amused. 

And indeed, Cuthbert can see that the entire party- all the men, and what few women he spies- are all, also, wearing this sort of thing, not a single pair of trousers to be found.

The susurration of the assembled noblemen rises; everyone else has started to notice the fantastically savage dress of their visitors. Across the line of assorted advisors flanking Steven and Roland, Marten the Magician’s hands have gone very white, his fists gathering the sides of his flowing robe. 

The Lady Grissom says something else, and the translator clears his throat, walking the siblings to the end of the row. He announces the names and titles of each person they come to- the Lady responding with a stiff, curt bow from the waist instead of with a curtsey, the Thegn leaning on his staff to firmly grasp the hands of all he comes to, both lords and ladies. The feeling of sneakish recognition comes upon Bert long before the translator announces to the room at large, “The Most Honorable The Marquess Allgood,” and the Troitan Thegn stands before him, taking his hand to the sound of collective gasps around the room, for Bert, it must be said, is traditionally bowed to. 

His grip is warm and firm, though not overly so, and his hand does not linger the way some men’s do. 

“So many rules,” the Thegn whispers, flashing him a grin. 

“Just enough,” Cuthbert says coolly, and the Thegn’s sister says nothing, only bows and gently nudges her brother’s side to move him along. Cuthbert can feel the gentle probe of Alain’s mind, and rebuffs it with a soft feeling.  _ Later _ .  _ Will explain _ .

Up the line a ways, the Thegn holds things up again, for Cuthbert’s mother and father are announced- His Grace the Duke Allgood, and his lady wife Her Grace the Duchess- and Cuthbert could swear he sees the flash of recognition on the Troitan’s face before he does what he has done for no other member of the nobility, putting a hand to his bare chest- the other gripping tight onto the staff- and bowing low to them both. His sister’s facial expression cannot be seen at this angle, but her bow- though slightly deeper- is even more curt and brief, as if to make up for his sudden show of etiquette. 

And lastly Roland and his father are announced- the Lord Dinh of Gilead, and the Dinh-tete and his lady wife- and there is a brief moment of ugly amusement all along the crowd as the Thegn pauses, conversing momentarily with his sister and the translator, apparently asking which one is which, before giving Roland and Susan a smaller bow and then dipping- slowly, still gripping onto the staff- to one knee in front of Steven. He pulls himself up, and there is a further moment of amusement among the gathered courtiers as he gestures at his sister, and the translator tries- fruitlessly, it seems- to explain that women do not kneel in court. She puts her hand on her brother’s arm, genuflects so swiftly that Bert would be surprised if her knee touches the ground at all, and returns stiffly to his side. 

“We bid you welcome, Lord and Lady Grissom,” Steven says formally, and the translator leans in, explaining to the siblings that the formalities have ceased and that it is time for a brief standing meal before they are officially retired to their guest accommodations. Cuthbert waits until Alain and Jamie have joined him at a belly-high, narrow table, lit by a single small candle, before exhaling roughly, as if his breath could leave him and take his ire along with it. 

Alain has by now gathered the meaning of Cuthbert’s ill mood, and likely passed it along to Jamie, so that the two of them give him each their most sympathetic looks as he fiddles irritably with the linen tablecloth. 

“I asked him if he  _ knew  _ him,” Bert mutters. “Asked him what he looked like, and he just about  _ told  _ me, the absolute-”

Across the room, the Grissoms are attracting attention again, for the Thegn is enthusiastically shaking Cuthbert’s father’s hand, his big gloved hands wrapping fully around his father’s as the translator tries to keep up with the astounding gibberish flowing from his mouth.

“Unbelievable,” Cuthbert hisses. Jamie is staring intently at the Thegn- Bert knows he could set the man alight with a thought, so the fact that he does not do so is terribly unfair of him- and Alain is giving him a small, twitching smile. “Oh, what?”

“You’re so terribly upset by the fact that you mistook him for someone else,” Alain says, propping his chin in one hand. “You have to admit, it was quite unlike you. Was there something on your mind last night?”

And from someone else it might be an innocent wondering, but his lovely dear Alain is anything but innocent. His smile fades a little, and he sighs. 

“Cuthbert-” he starts, and whatever soft and caring reproach it is he wants to give- whatever he wants to say, whatever he’s picked up from the outer limits of Bert’s thoughts- why, he simply does not want to hear it, not today. 

“I shall step outside for a breath of air,” Bert announces. “I’ll call for you if I have need, then.”

“As you will,” Alain sighs, poking morosely at a plate of tiny meat tarts. Jamie merely inclines his head in a nod- apparently, having lost sight of the Thegn, he turns to regard Alain’s plate, stealing one of the tarts for himself.

That itself should have been warning enough. No sooner does Cuthbert take a seat on a stone bench outside the Great Hall, in the still and quiet afternoon air all heady with the smells of late-sunlight flowers and the promise of dinnertime, than there is a heavy step on the flagstone behind him that stops sharply, then proceeds slowly until the Thegn is around in his view again. 

“Thought you could do with a good laugh,” the Thegn says mildly. 

“I beg your pardon?” Bert asks flatly, and the Thegn gestures at the stone bench. 

“Shouldn’t think you’d need it, but I’ll give it if I might sit for a moment,” he says, and Cuthbert turns stiffly away.

“Far be it from me to deny a weary traveler his rest,” Bert says, and the Thegn snorts a laugh and sits heavily down- even now, in his irritation, Bert can’t help but notice that there seems to be a true twinge of pain in his movements. “Were you injured? You weren’t using a staff last night.”

“Ah- yes, actually,” the Thegn says cautiously, glancing over at him. “Just a bit of foolishness, I’m afraid.” 

“That’s a shame. There’s usually a dance, when we have visiting nobility,” Cuthbert says mildly. “Suppose you couldn’t attend, though.”

“Perhaps not today,” the Thegn agrees. “Do you think you could-” He pauses significantly. “-carve some time out of your schedule?”

“What?” Cuthbert pauses, then turns, giving the Thegn a heavy glance. “Do you know that I am the official liaison to your party, Thegn Grissom?”

“Aye, I suspected once you were announced as the Honorable Marquess So-and-so,” he says, tilting his head. “We received notice of who we’d be spending the most time with ere we came, you know. That’s not your name, though, Lord Allgood… what do your friends call you?”

“My friends all already know what to call me, Thegn Grissom-”

“Tommy,” the Thegn interrupts, smiling. “Only those as don’t know me call me by my title, you know.” 

“I could not pretend to know you, Thegn Grissom,” Cuthbert says, standing. “Enjoy your evening, sai. I’ll see you tomorrow to conduct what business we may.”

“Aye, Thomas if ye’d be formal, then!” the Thegn calls after him, but he does not move to stand after Cuthbert heads back inside. Alain and Jamie are both watching him now, with every sign of amused interest.

“Don’t suppose you might have warned me of his intentions to go outside?” Bert grumbles, and Alain huffs a laugh. 

“Cry your pardon, dear, I wasn’t attending to his every urge and inclination,” Alain says, and Jamie shoots Alain an intense- almost pleading- look. Alain raises his eyebrows. “Jamie wants to know what you two spoke of.”

“Nothing at all,” Cuthbert grumbles.

“So you’re still sore and feeling that he made a fool of you somehow,” Alain translates, and Bert scoffs. “It does seem like you rather pointedly chose not to tell him who  _ you  _ were, last night, though. And he asked direct and everything.”

“That’s not quite the same, old boy, and you well know it. I’m-” Cuthbert is spared having to decide  _ what  _ he is, for Jamie puts a finger to his forearm, his touch electric through the sleeves of Bert’s shirt and formal jacket. “Yes, Jay?”

“He wants to know if you two spoke of anything else,” Alain offers, and Jamie nods. “For-” And surely there is a slight teasing quality to Alain’s voice? “-if the two of us are to assist in your work, why, we should know as much as possible, should we not?”

“He injured himself fooling about this morning, or some such,” Bert says. “And he says his given name is Thomas. Shouldn’t you have picked that much up from them by now, though?”

“Oh, their names, sure, for everyone in their party knows them well enough,” Alain agrees. “Siobhan and Thomas. Was the translator’s thought, earlier, about why they were so late, I wasn’t able to take it from the lady or the Thegn. Their minds are both a little more slippery- they might both have had some training in what magicks their people pursue, it feels a little as though they have. I could try to press in a little further, when it’s not so crowded.”

“You might, for it’d make this job go by ever so much quicker, and then we’d be done with this,” Cuthbert says fervently. Why, if Alain can find a way into their minds, this whole business might be done in a matter of days, and then Roland and Susan’s standing invitation might be accepted-!

“Oh, Bert,” Alain says, smiling sadly.

“Do not Oh-Bert me, Al,” Cuthbert says loftily. “Jamie, tell him.”

But Jamie, scanning the hall for signs of the Thegn, does not. Cuthbert sighs, putting his chin in his hand. He can think of a few ways, now, to get the Thegn somewhere alone with the three of them, and then Alain can do his work to gather up the data of his thoughts, and then the three of them could spend an evening together in the sorting of it. 

The Thegn’s disappearance is noted upon, though the Troitan party does not seem at all surprised when he is eventually escorted back inside on his sister’s arm, a loose handful of flowers- picked from the courtside topiary!- in his hand. He does not seem to notice or understand the scandal in plucking bits off the landscaping, nor does he seem to understand the enormous wave of shocked gossip that flows forth from every courtier’s lips when he goes and finds Cuthbert’s parents again, giving Cuthbert’s mother another bow and presenting the flowers to her with a disgustingly boyish smile. 

“Do you see that? Right in front of my father, even!” Cuthbert hisses, and Alain’s mouth quirks into a smile as Robert and Lavinia Allgood beam at the Thegn and clasp his hand in farewell before taking their leave. Alain doesn’t have leave to pick through the minds of their parents- and probably couldn’t, besides, for Robert is a gunslinger and well-trained, and Lavinia is Cuthbert’s  _ mother  _ and therefore possessed of an admirably terrifying intellect- but he doesn’t have to read their minds to see how amused and delighted they are by the Thegn’s strikingly scandalous action. 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure the Lord Duke is going wild with a jealous rage,” Alain says drily, as Robert gives the Thegn a gentle pat on the arm before bowing politely and smiling at the Thegn’s sister. Roland and Susan finally make their way over to their table, but Cuthbert doesn’t even get the chance to begin to complain about what happened before the Thegn- looking for all the pretty girls and women, it seems, the absolute scoundrel- lays his eyes on their table and stamps cheerfully towards them, the court translator in tow. 

“My lords- and lady-” the translator begins, sounding strained and exhausted, and the Thegn gives the poor man a concerned glance before dipping his head close to the translator’s ear to speak.

Alain taps Cuthbert’s hand as the court translator’s face turns a hideous purple-red, and he straightens up, his chin quivering.  _ He asked if the poor fellow need to go use the privy and promised he’d be well-behaved in his absence. Now Geoffrey _ \- Cuthbert presumes this is the translator’s given name-  _ wants to smack him and knows he cannot, and he really does have to go and it’s quite humiliating, for Geoffrey knows that he is not actually needed and was assigned to translate for them regardless _ .

_ Poor Geoffrey _ , Cuthbert sends back, even though he doesn’t see why the man couldn’t duck away for a few moments out of necessity. The Thegn gives the party a bemused smile as Geoffrey-the-translator picks up where he left off. 

“My lords and lady, the Thegn Grissom,” he says stiffly. “Wishes to ask for the courtesy of an informal greeting. And would like to speak about the arrangements for his visit.” 

“Which arrangements are those?” Susan asks, and the Thegn doesn’t even bother trying to wait for the translator, enthusiasm bubbling forth as he speaks. 

“Was hopin’ to see if anyone’d be game for a brisk walk ‘round the castle when it’s still cool in the morning,” he says brightly. “Have only seen ruins of castles before, you know, all fallen-in and grown-over, and while they’re quite lovely and all, aye, they are, wi’ vines all twisted up and ‘round the stones and-”

“You want to go for a walk around the castle and… look at it? With someone else beside you?” Roland asks slowly, his brow wrinkling. The Thegn blinks, then grins slowly.

“Well,” he says, tilting his head, “supposin’ it depends on who’s beside me what I’d be doin’, but aye, you have the shape of it, wee-dinh.” 

“Roland is sufficient,” Roland says hastily, and the Thegn’s rather suggestive grin blooms again into boyish glee. 

“Aye, then, Roland, it’s best if I’m just Thomas, then,” he says, and- another horrifying familiar breach of etiquette, but what else is new?- he bows his head and actually takes Susan’s hand, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of it. “And who might this be, then?”

“This is my wife, Susan,” Roland says stiffly, and the Thegn raises his eyebrows and nods, then turns as Geoffrey grabs at his arm and hisses urgently into his ear. 

“Oh, dear, have done it all improper, it seems?” the Thegn asks innocently, blinking at the table. “A hundred pardons, for I know there’s some as what I’m to kiss their hand, but goodness, I know not whom. Shall I start over, then?” he asks, holding a hand out to Roland, who blanches.

“No, that’s-” Roland says, and the Thegn hums a little.

“Oh, that’s right, you two are bows, ain’t that so,” he says, turning to Jamie with a small curl of his lips. “Well, then, what about-”

“Brother,” the Lady Grissom says, breaking from the crowd and looming up against his side. “Cease your fooling, we’re expected in the apartments.”

“Ah, I must go,” the Thegn pouts, before winking outrageously at Jamie. “Perhaps next time, then.” 

“Oh, they seem nice, don’t they?” Susan asks, blessed and eternally forgiving Susan, as the utterly harassed court translator and the Lady Grissom practically manhandle the Thegn out of the Great Hall. “Come along, Ro, we should get ourselves ready for dinner.”

“Did you see that?” Cuthbert demands, once it’s the three of them once more. “Did you  _ see  _ that?”

“Did,” Jamie echoes distantly, and that, apparently, is his last word on the matter. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Cuthbert wakes at his accustomed time, and is only mildly surprised to learn from Alain that Jamie- who, as a gunslinger himself, is also an early riser- has dressed and left. Their quiet friend often has business he wishes to attend to in full privacy, and this is not particularly unusual in and of itself-

-but when Bert and Alain cross the main bailey to go to breakfast together, they spy him standing awkwardly silent in the lee of a small outbuilding, gazing intently up at something high up on the ramparts- ah, no, some _ one _ . The tall, cloaked figure ambling across it is quite plainly the Thegn.

“Good work, Jay,” Cuthbert murmurs, once they draw near. “I knew you suspected as I did, that the Thegn’s plot to traverse the castle itself might be some sort of ruse to supplement his knowledge of our defenses.”

Jamie turns slowly and blinks, before meeting Alain’s gaze- then turns back to look for the Troitan. Jamie frowns slightly, and Cuthbert follows his line of sight- only there is no lanky, cloaked shadow up there anymore. Cuthbert reaches over, giving his friend’s shoulder a single pat. 

“There there, Jamie, we’ll catch him at it,” he says consolingly, and Jamie very pointedly takes his wrist and removes his hand from his shoulder. Cuthbert takes no offense, as he knows quite well how being touched uninvited takes old Jamie. “Well, Alain, should we head in for breakfast and then hunt down the ambassador after, or-?”

“No need,” Alain says, sounding entirely too amused. “The ambassador hunts us, today.”

Sure enough, by the time Cuthbert turns he can see the Thegn loping towards them- no staff, today- from a nearby staircase that corners the battlement. 

“Ah, what a lovely morning, is it not?” the Thegn booms out, giving the three of them a bright smile. “Good day t’you, then. Or am I supposed to be bowing again?”

“Nay, Thegn Grissom-” Alain starts politely, and the Thegn shoots him a cheeky grin. 

“Am quite comfortable to be called as I am, you know, I haven’t got a head for remembering anyone’s titles and can’t possibly hold you to use mine in speech, can I?” he says, holding a hand out to Alain and giving him a firm handshake. “Thomas it is, aye. And if I caught your name yestereve, why, I must confess I lost it again.”

“You didn’t catch it,” Alain says, and for a moment he seems oddly flustered, meeting the Thegn’s eyes, his grip lingering for a moment. “But it’s Alain Johns, sai.”

“Alain,” the Thegn repeats softly, carefully. “Well met, Alain. Please, none of your sais with me, only Thomas, or Tommy, aye.”

“Thomas, then,” Alain says, then releases the Thegn’s hand as if just recalling that he has it. “It’s a lovely morning just now, isn’t it?”

“It’s a lovely morning, aye,” the Thegn agrees, his eyes- a dark hazel, in the morning light- resting a bit over-long on Jamie’s face before he offers his hand out. “Might I ask, then-?”

“This is Jamie DeCurry,” Alain says, and Jamie, perhaps sensing that his customary refusal to take hands might be seen as some sort of international insult, gingerly reaches out and grasps the Thegn’s hand for a second or two before hastily pulling his red-marked hand back, his pale eyes fixed on the Thegn’s face. Alain clears his throat, looking expectantly at Bert.

“And of course, we’ve met before,” Cuthbert says, and the Troitan’s gaze is far too long on Jamie, who hates so to be ogled and gawped at. “My name is Cuthbert Allgood, though I’m sure you knew that already.”

His name has the intended effect, dragging the Troitan’s eyes away from Jamie’s face. In truth, Jamie himself is frankly beautiful- his eyes striking in their pale near-silver hue, his hair a bronze-gold cloud framing his well-formed face, his skin a rich brown a few shades darker than his hair- and many men like the look of him far too much for his comfort. Those who don’t gluttonously drink the sight of him up tend to shy away once they see the red birth-marks dotting his jawbone and neck and covering almost the entirety of his right hand- that, or mutter a countercurse or prayer to stave him off. 

The Thegn seems to be of the former type. When he meets Bert's eyes he looks almost dazed, as if he is unsure of what his eyes are seeing. 

"Knew that already…? Oh, no, I'm sure I didn't," he says distantly, blinking and coming a little more back into himself. "Thank you, though. Very well met, aren't we, aye… well, I'm going to… to go back to my room now, then. I'm sure my dear sister would like me to take a meal with her before we go in our separate directions today-"

"That is acceptable," Bert says. "I'll meet you at noon near the western gatehouse."

"Aye, so you will then," he agrees, glancing at Jamie. "I'm looking forward to our meeting, you three. Until then, keep well."

"Long days, Thegn Griss-" Bert starts, and the Thegn pauses, smiling, and mouths his own name at Cuthbert. "Long days, Thomas."

"Aye, but not too long a day before we meet again, I hopes," the Thegn says cheerfully, before tipping an imaginary hat at Jamie and Alain. "Til then!"

_ Til then _ , Jamie mouths silently at his back. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 tags/warnings: Stupid Sexy Tommy, additional unrequited love, mention of ableism, nonverbal/low-verbal characters, autistic gunslingers, implied/referenced child abuse

To say that Cuthbert enjoys his status and rank, as a gunslinger and as the son of a Duke and Duchess, would be only somewhat false- he does enjoy that, as a gunslinger, he has his own small, private suite instead of a bunk in the pressingly open barracks the others of their ka-tel sleep in, and that in deference to his status as a marquess he has a suite with perhaps an extra foot of wallspace than the suites Alain and Jamie reside in, and a rough electric light hanging over the small, unpaned window with its wooden shutter that can open for light and air. Alain and Jamie, poor souls, must use candles or oil lamps- or, well, in Jamie’s case, expend magic for a little bit of deeply unnatural light- when they want to read. There aren’t truly many other perks, yet- and those that do exist, he tends to shy away from- but this one, the singular pleasure he takes in having leave to speak to almost anyone he wishes in almost any manner he wishes and override almost all but the highest decrees, well… he doesn’t get to use it often, so he treasures it utterly when he does.

This is one such moment.

“Until such a time when I no longer have need of them,” Cuthbert repeats, and before him, the so-called court sorcerer- Marten, who in truth is (Bert  _ sincerely  _ hopes he can discern this from his thoughts) nothing more than a manipulative, craven schemer inordinately blessed with a longer life than some and the ability to use a few of the parlor tricks necessary to awe a crowd of the uneducated or the weak-willed- makes no outward sign of his fury, other than the clenching of a single fist at his side and the press of his wide, full-lipped mouth into a grim line. 

He is not required to explain to the old fraud what he wants them for, only that it is for official court business- and Marten, indeed, may already know what that is, for he has ever been close to Steven’s counsel despite everything he’s done. Just that sour thought-  _ everything he’s done! _ \- itself crawls through Bert’s mind- puts him in mind of what he discovered now more than eight months past about what Marten has done to Alain and Jamie, his two apprentices, and what he did to Jamie before, when Jamie was still so young and newly freed of the doctor’s house. 

Bert knows now that his reaction to this information was dangerous, foolish. He cannot say that he would have reacted any differently- his actions led directly to the journey their four-part tet made to Mejis, to Roland’s great love affair with the beautiful Susan, to the meeting and friendship of sweet old Olive Thorin and Sheemie, and back again to the four of them returning triumphant to Gilead with their three new friends in tow. It  _ was, _ perhaps, foolish to think- just after his fifteenth birthday- that he might challenge Cort and win, and equally foolish to assume that Steven Deschain would not furiously arrange for his son’s challenge to be issued on the same day, so that by rank Roland would be granted the right to fight Cort first, and be awarded their title first among their class. 

Perhaps that truly was what Marten’d intended- perhaps it was all some master manipulation, to pit Cuthbert against Steven, and draw both their attention from himself. Cuthbert allows that the magician might have been smart enough to conceive of such a plan- but then, it seems that Marten has forgotten a deeply salient fact of Cuthbert’s nature: he has, it seems, ire and attention plenty enough for both men. 

Marten, at least, now knows what might happen to him if Cuthbert ever knows- thinks-  _ suspects  _ that he has laid a hand on Jamie or Alain again, knows that Cuthbert will face no legal consequence for the death of a court magician, knows that he is under a glass and keenly watched with the eye of one who is waiting for even the smallest sign that a single touch or ill-intended thought has reached the bodies or minds of his ka-mates. And Marten knows that he can do nothing about it, and can do nothing to the two who are apprenticed to learn the magical arts from him, and knows that Cuthbert knows and relishes all this.

Marten plasters a false smile across his face, giving Cuthbert a short bow. “Well, sai, such lessons as they will be missing will have to be made up, at some time or another. All missed opportunities for learning come ‘round to haunt one, sooner or later, but I’m sure we’ll be making up for lost time soon enough.”

“We shall see,” Cuthbert says mildly, dismissing the magician with a curt nod. When he is older- when he has been marked not just a novice gunslinger but a master of his trades, or more accurately when Roland has been officially declared and named Steven’s heir, with all the pomp and ceremony such an official proclamation deserves- he will have a fine, expansive office with a great wooden desk, and a personal library, and an apartment adjoined to these. At this time, however, he must make do with a small shared office, where he and Alain and Jamie and Roland must split space along a midsized table for their work. Largely their time is taken with post-graduate studies- for they all gained the guns at so young an age that they hadn’t completed all of their actual tactical, language, or cultural studies- though, as gunslingers (and, in Roland’s case, as the head of a household) there is now an amount of weekly paperwork they must see to as well. 

In any case, right now Roland and Alain and Jamie are all gone from the room, and for a moment it seems as though Bert  _ does  _ occupy his own private office. This was intentional; he does not like the darting fear and anxiety Marten’s presence brings out in his ka-mates. 

Marten takes his leave, and Cuthbert waits until he’s fully out of his sight before he stands and stretches. He sort of wishes, now, that he’d asked his friends to linger nearby and walk to the western gatehouse together, but he supposes that if they had, Marten might have found some small, mean way to perform mischief against them. It is very close to noon- only, well, Thegn Grissom (it feels far too familiar yet, to Bert, that they should all call him Thomas) surely does not seem to understand or respect the time of others, or even have a reliable way to measure it. 

It’s a lovely day, too, so that Cuthbert enjoys his leisurely walk to the agreed-upon meetingplace- and then pauses midstep only once, feeling dismayed at the sight of three men chatting together there.  _ Of course _ , he thinks wryly, no sooner would Bert decide that Troitans are born to be late than the Thegn would disprove him once more. 

The subject of their talk, apparently, is the Thegn himself- or, more accurately, the tattooed shapes and lines in his skin. His cloak is cast open, revealing a lanky body- gangling enough to belie the Thegn’s young age, for there is a layer of what Cuthbert’s mother calls billyfat laid over the slim, compact muscles lining his chest and stomach and broad, slightly pointed shoulders. As if totally unaware of the display- and truly, Cuthbert thinks if some of the older ladies of the court saw this, there would be no small amount of fainting- the Thegn gestures and points, spreading his arms, tracing lines and proudly jabbering away at his little audience.

“-and of course, you know, quite a bit of this is traditional to our family- you’ll see much of this on my sister and my mum,” the Thegn explains brightly. “Well, and my brothers and my other sisters too, if they were in the city, you know.”

“How many brothers and sisters  _ do  _ you have?” Alain asks, his eyes trailing down the woven-seeming pattern of blues and greens down the Thegn’s bicep. 

“Nine, in all, I think, I’m the baby, aye, Tommy makes ten,” the Thegn says proudly, and Alain- who, with two sisters in total, comes from an uncommonly, almost bizarrely large family- nearly chokes. “My mum’s done very well for herself, you know. Are- say, Alain, are you well?”

“I’m alright, I just-” Alain waves a hand, coughing. The soft look of concern on the Thegn’s face lingers for a moment, until Alain clears his throat and offers a smile. “Really, I am. I was just- surprised, I suppose, by the answer.”

“Oh, I see,” the Thegn says doubtfully, before smiling faintly. “Well, if you truly are alright-”

“Don’t fret yourself over it,” Alain reassures him. “You mentioned there are a few on your hands, too?” 

“Oh, aye,” he replies, brightening up again and stripping off his gloves- his hands, Bert sees, are still wrapped in linen strips, but when he unwinds the wrappings there is no sign or indication of any injury at all on them. Bert steps a little closer and offers a wave to make himself known to his ka-mates, giving it another moment or two before clearing his throat.

“Hile, Thegn Thomas,” Cuthbert says, and the Thegn pauses, before offering him a small smile. “Hile, Alain and Jamie. My apologies for my lateness, I had to deal with a spot of unpleasantness before I came, and wanted to breathe the clean outside air a moment before I approached you.”

Alain chuckles softly, and Jamie exhales in a huff of good humor- and, knowing what Cuthbert was doing and who he refers to, this was fully expected. What isn’t as expected is that the Thegn snorts a horsey laugh as well, though he pauses again in his unwrapping to give Cuthbert a slightly horrified grin.

“Is that not a  _ joke _ , Cuthbert?” he asks slowly, and at Cuthbert’s politely puzzled look he shakes his head. “Oh, you poor things. This is barely outside air, all stuffy and thick with people-smell and smoke and lingering-” He wrinkles his nose, glancing miserably at the kitchens and at the distant outhouses. “Lingerings, aye. Have ye never been out in the wild open places where the air is its own joy, then? Oh, dearie me, oh-”

“We’ve been away from civilization, if that’s what you’re asking. Out as far East as the Clean Sea,” Cuthbert says, a little rankled- why, no, he doesn’t try to claim that the air of the various courtyards of Castle Gilead are particularly fresh, but to act as though they don’t know what clean air is, why-! He takes back the faintly charmed feeling he’d begun to feel at the sight of the Thegn so visibly concerned with his dear Alain’s wellbeing, replacing it again with righteous indignation. “We traveled over many a broad country to get there, of course, and the land itself is-”

He can’t say unspoiled, for the huge oilfields there create a noxious rank when the wind’s wrong, and when the wind’s right the township of Hambry smells a little too fully of hot horse and horse-leavings, but he rallies beautifully, in his own opinion. “-indeed, a very expansive and pastoral area.”

“That does sound very nice,” the Thegn offers weakly, before seemingly noticing that he’s finished pulling the linen bandages from his hands and is now left with a great fistful of cloth. Alain meets Cuthbert’s eyes- smiling far too knowingly, perhaps Bert is thinking a little too loudly- and at his side Jamie steps forward. His hands- both very small, just like the rest of him, one brown and one red- gently cradle the Thegn’s left hand, thumbs running over the big, knobby knuckles and the ribbonlike tattoos covering them and spiraling around the bones of his fingers. 

Alain sucks in a faint gasp, and the Thegn, Bert can see, is looking dreamily at Jamie again, staring far too long for politeness. 

“Jamie- Jamie would like to know what these mean,” Alain stammers, and the Thegn gives him a sheepish grin- gives all three of them one, eyes darting around once before settling again on Jamie’s face. 

“Was only testing to see that I could do the lines that fine, aye,” the Thegn admits conspiratorially, and when Bert leans closer he can see that what he’d thought of as a single thick line is made of several plaited lines, each following their own winding path around his finger before culminating in a thicker edged line around the second finger-bone of each hand. “ _ Most _ of the ink does carry a meaning, but- ah, I just wanted to know that I could, I suppose.” 

“If you were only testing your abilities, why’d you do it to all your fingers and not just stop at one?” Cuthbert asks, and the Thegn considers this, licking his lower lip in thought before raising his eyes to meet Bert’s. 

“Well, I suppose I don’t know,” he says softly. “If something fleeting brings you joy, do you stop after only doing it the once? Or do you do it again and then again, to carry that joy with you for as long as it may last?”

Jamie looks down at his hands, then up at Alain, who clears his throat. 

“Jamie would like to know if you need any help wrapping your hands back up,” Alain offers, and the Thegn looks mildly surprised, before giving them a wry smile.

“Well- the way of doing it is a bit particular, you see-” he starts, and Jamie moves his hands, letting go of the Thegn’s to do so. His fingers move in a complicated pattern, before the linen wraps shiver to life and resume their former positions, slithering over the Thegn’s hands like snakes until they’re tightly wound all over and around his hands again. It’s not a terribly complicated bit of magic, but the Thegn’s face becomes utterly radiant with delight as he watches this, and once it’s complete he experimentally opens and closes his hands. 

“Why, it’s good as new, isn’t it?” he crows, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Thank you, Jamie, that was amazing!” And then he does the unthinkable, taking Jamie’s hands in his and pressing a mortifyingly inappropriate kiss to Jamie’s knuckles. Jamie snatches his hands away, eyes very round, and the Thegn looks completely taken aback for a moment, frozen in place as he tries to figure out why Jamie’s hands are no longer in his.

“Jamie doesn’t like being grabbed by strange men,” Cuthbert snaps, and the Thegn looks almost convincingly sorry, no doubt in order to try to wheedle his way back into Jamie’s good graces. “Though, in all honesty,  _ no one _ does.”

“Oh,” the Thegn says in a small voice, and then- putting a hand on one bony knee, wincing only a little- he kneels down on the other knee, eyes searching Jamie’s face. “I do cry your pardon, Jamie. I am a very forgetful- ah, no, but it won’t happen again, forgetful or no.” 

Jamie nods stiffly, and the Thegn rises, looking a bit shaken. 

“We’d better get back around to business, besides,” Alain suggests, shooting Jamie a worried glance. “Have your people reviewed the proposed terms of the treaty yet?”

“The proposed-?” The Thegn blinks several times, then nods slowly, tugging his gloves back on with a deeply distracted air. “Oh, yes. Well, don’t know if there’d been any changes since, but I read through the first draft on the way in. Had a few questions I wrote down, but- oh, well, suppose none of you’d brought things to- to-” He trails off, looking down at his hands, then glances back up. “Don’t suppose none of you’s a scribe, then?”

“Don’t fret over that. We have ways,” Cuthbert says loftily. The Thegn’s eyes dart towards Jamie again- possibly wondering if Jamie has some sort of magic used for recall, perhaps. It’s nothing so complicated as that- Cuthbert simply has a talent for remembering things he’s heard or seen- but it does no harm to let the Thegn think that there is more here at work than there is.

The Thegn digs into a pouch at his waist and produces a squat, handbound leather booklet. He opens it and flips it a few pages, and at the telltale rasp of his gloves against paper the three of them gasp faintly- even Cuthbert, which is  _ fine _ , for it’s a tiny wonder of the world to have so much clean, new paper in one’s hands. Many old books have been preserved, in varying states of care, but by all reckoning the ability to make new paper has mostly been lost ever since the time of Arthur Eld’s grandchildren.

“Where did you get that, if you don’t mind me asking?” Cuthbert asks- not just out of simple curiosity, though he’d love to get his hands on a little book like this, perhaps as a gift or two. If the Troitans have allies- trade partners who have begun to relearn or mastered to art of producing paper- then Gilead’s position in the terms of this treaty is suddenly a little more shaky.

“Mm? Brung it from home, so I did,” the Thegn murmurs, before finding the page in particular he wants and digging a stubby pencil out of his pouch. Cuthbert exchanges a narrow-eyed look with Alain- if the Troitan wants to play coy now, of all times, he should very much like Alain to know why- but says nothing as the Thegn clears his throat. “Right. So, the original treaty wasn’t as what I’d call, um, clear on a few matters, so.”

The Thegn glances down at his notes. “First item, there’s this business of our folk allowing, ah, unrestricted access to any Canaanite traveler, tradesman, merchant, or pilgrim? It- well, it isn’t, you know, um-”

“Do you mean to say that the Troitans would disallow or mistreat travelers, Thegn Grissom?” Cuthbert asks innocently, and the Thegn smiles at him, as if there is yet another joke that Cuthbert isn’t aware of. “For that, I’m afraid, would be cause for conflict, you see.”

“It would rightfully be so,” the Thegn agrees readily. “And truly, there is no dispute among the Elder Thegns in this regard- everyone says so, for we welcome travelers as much as we would like to be welcomed, and enjoy trade and the sale of what we need and don’t have, and know much about travel for the faithful, see. It’s just that this treaty doesn’t, as it is now, reflect current boundaries between our lands and the edges of the Affiliated Baronies, and that puts us and you both in a very sticky place, doesn’t it? For this treaty also promises that word would be sent ahead of any traveling party greater than two dozen persons, and clearly that opens up a significant margin of danger for a party that has been traveling through Troitan lands unannounced and unheralded. Harriers seek our goods and youngsters, same as they seek yours, and the price of any group caught sneaking around in the hopes of taking us unawares- well! It’s not, ah, gunslinger justice, but we must, regretfully, be sure and swift in the prevention of such attacks.”

The Thegn gives them a beaming smile. “So, really, this treaty ought to ratify our borders, too, and establish well-guarded crossing-places for the safety of all Canaanites who might travel through our lands, see.”

“I… yes, I do see,” Cuthbert says, feeling vaguely stunned and momentarily- well, he’s not sure what he feels, truly. “Well, we’ll have our cartographers draw up some maps, of course-”

“Of course, Cuth- um- Lord Allgood,” the Thegn stammers, looking pointedly at his notebook and not at Cuthbert. “Part of the ratification will of course be to, to also select the places where your Canaanite border-forts will be, and to select the places  _ our  _ border-forts will be, aye. For imagine how terribly embarrassing it’d be if we built ours in shouting distance of yours! Though-” 

He pauses, grinning up at the sky for a moment. “Oh, just imagine the parties, though, if we did? Might be worth it here and there, just for that.”

Alain meets Bert’s eyes, gently nudges his arm,  _ I still can’t find his thoughts, find a way to stall him. _

“Well, this is likely part of the treaty that will have to be decided by the entire council, not just me,” Cuthbert says brightly, drawing the Thegn’s attention again. “But it looks like that whole book is full of your writing, isn’t it? Surely you’ve filled that thing to the brim with your questions, then?”

“Oh, no, not all,” the Thegn says, blushing. “No, indeed, I use it for other notes and turns of phrase and for ideas for what I’ll do later- well, I don’t suppose you need to know all that, but, um. No, indeed, it’s mostly other things. Oh, but, I do have some more questions, though.”

“Ask away, and we’ll see if I’ve got an answer,” Cuthbert says, and the Thegn almost smiles at that. 

“Ah- before we begin, though, I- would it be possible to go inside, actually, or find- find a bench or a- a low wall to sit on, or something? I-I should think it’s- only it’s quite hot, isn’t it? And you Canaanite folk wear ever so many more layers, I should think you’d be dripping in this heat, aye!” 

“Oh, no, we’re fine, you get used to the heat, you know,” Cuthbert says smoothly, and Jamie nods a little when Bert gestures at him for agreement. “You were saying, though?”

“So- well, we’re very pleased with your acceptance of the proposal for Troitan families to be allowed access to your cities and townships, you know, as there are indeed many who’d like to settle in. In places such as this, aye.” He licks his lip- possibly a nervous habit, though Bert spots Jamie watching this with every sign of concerned interest. “Only there’s a few odd restrictions that I am sure are, are, you know, only an oversight on the part of the person who wrote the first draft, see. It specifically bars Troitans from owning property within your cities and townships unless awarded specifically by the local Mayor or by order of Gilead’s dinh- ah, that’s Lord Deschain, isn’t it?- but then, ah, a little lower down, it also specifically states that any Troitan dwelling within the city borders is subject to the same taxation as landowning citizens, see.”

“Well, surely they gain more than the cost of the taxes, in terms of what benefits they’d receive,” Cuthbert suggests weakly, for even as annoyed as he is now, he must admit that this doesn’t sound at all attractive for the Troitans. He wonders who it was that drafted the treaty- likely it was a combined effort, but surely anyone with a decent head on their shoulders would spot the potential for abuse there- surely this was just the product of momentary thoughtlessness-

-only, Bert recalls with a faint sense of dread and mortification, perhaps Steven had been literal, indeed, at the suggestion that the Troitans might not know how to read a treaty or contract. It had seemed at the time to be a cruel and clumsy joke, not a potential guideline for a legal document. 

And still the Thegn smiles at him! It’s as if he knows he’s caught Gilead- and Cuthbert by extension- in the act of doing something untoward. 

“We’ll have to revisit these terms in particular, I’m afraid,” Cuthbert says politely, and the Thegn nods slowly, swaying slightly- is the heat truly bothering him so? Gilead in late autumn is not a particularly chilly land, but already the eveningwear of nobles and commoners alike includes cloaks and mufflers to guard against the night wind. There is indeed sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip, but it does not seem quite like the sweat of an overhot man. “You know, if it is not impolite to say so- you do look like you’ve come over a bit ill, Thegn Grissom. Would you like to retire back to your apartments to gather up your proposed maps? We could meet in my office around, say, four or five of the clock? Then we could certainly start the process of marking out the boundary lines.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, that-” He takes a step and nearly stumbles, and Alain, seeing his chance, gently takes his arm, his other hand catching against a bare expanse of the Thegn’s chest. 

“Why don’t we walk you home, then?” Alain suggests mildly, and the Thegn shoots him such a grateful little smile that Cuthbert almost feels bad about the fact that they’re merely using the physical contact to dig into his thoughts. Jamie keeps shooting him distressed looks behind Alain’s back- poor fellow’s had a distressing day, and it’s barely half over- and he resolves to do something very nice for and with his ka-mates, once the affair of the Thegn is quite finished. 

“You know, I think a meal and a rest might do the trick, wouldn’t you say?” Alain is asking, and the Thegn nods faintly. “What ails you? You know, Jamie’s quite skilled in the art of doctoring if you-”

“I’m sure it will be fine-” the Thegn says, flustered, and then, without meeting Alain’s gaze or anyone else’s, “-thank you very kindly, but I haven’t got any illnesses, it’s- this is just a passing- it’s- I’m fine.”

“Is it the heat?” Cuthbert asks sympathetically. “You did mention it earlier.”

“The- oh, yes,” the Thegn agrees blearily. “Yes, it’s quite hot. Possibly hotter than I need it to be with this big cloak on, but I was told- I was told- best to wear something, aye, even in the heat, for- for you, you know, it- it’s not the same in my country.”

“Oh?” Alain asks, his hand soothing a circle over the Thegn’s chest. The Thegn blinks, licking his lip again. “We’d hear more about your country, you know, that’s part of the reason we’re here now, for the, ah-”

“The cultural exchange,” Bert supplies, catching Alain’s eye. 

“Well, I’m sure some things are, ah, the same all over, you know,” the Thegn says numbly, before brightening up just a little. “Could… could show you, though, perhaps today or tomorrow? Aye, perhaps could make a few new ones, too.”

“Mmhm,” Alain agrees distractedly, his eyes going distant. Cuthbert wonders at that- using the Touch overmuch can strain him, and if it’s going to cause him another of those awful headaches, why, he’ll just ask Alain to stop that and rest for now. “Oh- no need, dear, no need of that.”

“Oh,” the Thegn says, blinking at him. “Of- of course, aye, what interest’d ye have in such things? You’re right.” 

“Mm?” Alain opens his mouth, then frowns as they pass under a stone archway leading to the inner halls. “Say, I-” 

The Thegn leans down a little, offering his hand to a shadowed crevice, and after a moment a pair of eyes peers out at them, followed by several more- a mother cat and her litter, it seems, for they approach delicately and sniff at his outstretched fingers. One of the kittens- a handsome gray fellow with a white tail- looks a little sickly, and he tuts at it, cupping his hand over the tiny thing until the mother gently bats him away and leads her brood to safety. 

“Cats are so nice,” the Thegn says, and Jamie nods at him from over Alain’s shoulder. When the Thegn straightens back up, Alain is quick to take his arm again- though, Bert notes, he is very careful not to touch the Thegn’s skin again, grasping him through the material of his heavy cloak. 

“Let’s get you home,” Alain says, sweat beading on his forehead and lip as they continue. 

“Remember,” Cuthbert says, and the Thegn nods. “Four or five this evening.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” the Thegn agrees. “Perhaps even a working dinner, then? Could very well meet you in your office, aye. I’ll be sure to bring my maps and some inks and pens to make adjustments, too.” 

“We’ll be looking quite forward to it, I say,” Bert agrees, as the hallway turns and the door to the ambassador’s quarters, guarded by a pair of Troitans, comes into view.

“Oi, Tommy,” one of the guards calls out to him,  _ intensely  _ familiar for a mere- ah, no, things are different in the Troitan camps, after all. “What’ve ye done t’y’self now, lad?” 

“Am fine, Connor, don’t fret ya none,” the Thegn calls back roughly, looking mildly embarrassed. “Ah, that- that’s Connor, that is.”

“I assumed so when you shouted out his name like that,” Cuthbert says, and a most peculiar pink blush spreads across the Thegn’s cheeks and nose and the bits of his ears visible under the enormous mane of braided hair. It is fetching, if only because it reminds Bert of the same color nesting high in Alain’s cheeks whenever he’s had a drink or two. “Well, we’ll leave you in your folk’s care, then, Thegn Gr-”

“Oh, please, not in front of the lads, they’d never give me a day’s rest, oh no they would not,” the Thegn says imploringly, and Jamie shoots Bert an intense silver-eyed glare.

“Thomas,” Cuthbert sighs, resolving to try to call him by his given name when he can. “We’ll see you soon enough, then.”

“Aye,” Thegn- no, Thomas- says, cheering up faintly, before turning to face Jamie and doing something complicated with his hands. After a moment he does something else- a simpler handsign, it seems- before turning and limping quickly toward the Troitan guards. One- the guard who is not Connor, it seems- gently takes Thomas’s elbow and, after an inscrutable glance at the three of them, bundles him inside the apartment.

Jamie’s eyes are very round, and Alain’s face is very drawn, but they both wait in silence until they can reach their shared office. 

“What did those hand signs mean?” Jamie asks Alain urgently, and Alain shrugs mutely, massaging his temples. 

“I couldn’t see, it was-” he trails off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I couldn’t look anymore.”

“Why don’t you just tell us what you did see, Al, perhaps it’s what we’re looking for,” Cuthbert suggests, and Alain gives him a morose shrug. 

“At first there didn’t seem to be much to find, Bert. He- oh, the problem wasn’t the heat, though it  _ was  _ uncomfortably warm for him. All he could think about at first was how badly his hip and knee were hurting him, and how badly he didn’t want to tell us the true nature of his discomfort.” Alain hesitates, glancing over at Jamie. “He particularly didn’t want you to think any less of him, after what’d happened earlier.”

Jamie nods sharply, moving his hand in a circle to tell him to continue. 

“He also-” Alain huffs, faintly amused. “He also thought quite a bit about how he would like to court Jamie, and fretted that he’d ruined his chance to get to know him better, and hoped that the two of you could remain friendly and perhaps even correspond by letter after he goes back to his home. He also became distracted- very easily distracted, I must say- because thinking of writing letters reminded him of writing to his mother, and then he thought of when he last saw her, and then he thought of a specific kind of flower he’d seen on the journey here. Then he thought again of Jamie, and of presenting a bouquet of these flowers to Jamie-”

“Is there more along this same vein?” Cuthbert asks, and Alain nods, shooting Jamie a small smile. “It doesn’t seem like he’d have had  _ time  _ to think all these thoughts, though?”

“It felt like- like when I try to read a book while speaking to someone and Feeling for their thoughts,” Alain says at last. “It wasn’t as though there were many of him, but as though he was doing four different things all at once and couldn't decide which thing to do first. But then-”

Alain winces, massaging the sides of his forehead again. “But then it  _ was  _ as though there were many of him.”

“Why, he didn’t hurt you at all, did he?” Cuthbert asks, and Alain takes a troublingly long time to consider this.

“I don’t think he even knew I was there,” Alain concludes, shaking his head. “At first- when we stopped, before the cats came- I felt it as though a tingle, a distant meeting of voices, of the sort when people don’t know if a place is empty or not and call out to draw others to them. But when the cats came out, it was as though- as though Thomas was hundreds, or thousands of small voices, all squirming and hungry and mindlessly devoted to doing nothing more than to spread and feed and breed and spread some more. And when he touched the little gray one, it was as though all those voices multiplied.” Alain gives Bert a drawn, worried look. “It was as though his mind became some sort of teeming, filthy hive.” 

“Indeed? And yet-” Cuthbert trails off, disturbed by the vague, faint mental image Alain Sends him- of being covered and filled with countless invisible tiny crawling things, of all of those things being so tiny that they barely have a sense that the man they live in and on even exists. “My god, Alain, that’s horrible.”

“He doesn’t seem… malicious, at all,” Alain offers weakly. “But being near him made it very distracting, for I thought I could hear you and Jamie clearer than I usually could- and touching him was like hearing your voice plain, so that I wasn’t sure whether you’d spoken or merely thought. And being so close and so loud meant that his pain started seeping into me, so that for a few moments I  _ felt  _ what his knee and hip were doing.”

“But you somehow think that all this was unintentional and not… not some targeted attempted to keep you out,” Cuthbert confirms, and Alain nods firmly. “How could you be so sure, Al?”

“I think if he’d noticed I was in his head he’d have been- well, he seems like he would be very embarrassed to have a witness to some of the things he thought and felt, and feelings might be blocked from view but not faked, not in someone’s head like that.” Alain glances over at Jamie again. “He thought you looked like an open sea at sunrise, you know.”

“How unfortunate that he’d latch onto our dear Jay,” Cuthbert sighs. “We could have arranged a private meeting and pried a few secrets out of him if it’d been one of the two of us-”

“-or,” Jamie says thickly, eyes trained intently on Bert’s face as he struggles to make the words fit the thought he has. “Could. I could, since… since I’m the one, who.” 

“Are you sure, Jay? I can’t say I much enjoy imagining you in danger of that man,” Cuthbert says, frowning, and Jamie smiles faintly at him.

“Am more danger than most men,” he says, and as a fledgling mage and fellow gunslinger Cuthbert must admit that he’s quite right. “Could be after dinner.”

“If you’re sure, Jamie?” Cuthbert asks doubtfully, and Jamie nods. Cuthbert sighs. “I pray that there are no more such surprises during your meeting with him, after our working dinner, then.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The Thegn-  _ no _ , Cuthbert corrects himself irritably,  _ Thomas, _ Thomas is the source of yet more surprises during their dinnertime meeting after all. 

He’d arrived at the shared office bearing a large, slightly battered leather courier’s tube strapped over one shoulder, wearing a lighter cloak than he’d been wearing before, one of a dyed linen. He’d hung it up almost comically on the carved wooden coathooks by the door, revealing once again that no one has thought to purchase a shirt for anyone in the Troitan party, and cheerfully admitted to them that it was his mother’s, and that she was annoyed at him for having borrowed it. 

“But Mummy loves me too much to say no, aye,” he’d concluded with a slightly scandalized grin, before taking Roland’s seat uninvited and spreading out a large map on the table. 

The Troitan cartographers are good, Cuthbert has to admit- individual streams and farms are noted on it in different colored inks, and labeled with their respective names when the Troitans were able to find them. As far as the level of accuracy within the boundaries of the Affiliation goes, though, Cuthbert wishes that perhaps they weren’t quite so good. A marauding party with a map of this quality would be able to strike every villa and homestead between the Great Mountains and the Western Sea. 

“How many of these are there?” Cuthbert had asked, and the Thegn- no, Thomas- had smiled that infuriating boyish smile and told him that there were as many maps as they’d need. 

The long work of comparing the map to existing maps within the castle and the notes and records on file with the various townships and city-states that have more recently formed or requested to join the Affiliation takes the better part of an hour- Thomas offers and they each accept a bottle of royal blue ink, very like the color of the standard of Gilead, as they mark out the borders and prospective guardhouse locations. He himself selects a coppery orange-red- when the ink dries, it looks to contain a slight shimmer, though Cuthbert can’t imagine that he’d have used real copper in the making of it. Thomas has only his singular book to check his marks against, and is therefore quite done marking out the proposed Troitan lands and borderhouses some minutes before the three of them finish the Affiliation side. 

A knock on the door from a servant bearing a tray of food and a carafe of cool water prevents Cuthbert from commenting on the differences in their proposed borders- there are hundreds and hundreds of wheels of agreed-upon borderlines, but in some spots the Troitan territory is marked almost thirty or forty wheels inside of the current boundaries of the Affiliation’s land. 

"What do you call this?" Thomas asks curiously- he is holding a cucumber and cream popkin in one hand, almost daintily. There is a single large bite missing from it.

"Those are cold popkins, though they can be made of other things. Meats and such," Cuthbert offers.

"Oh, aye?" Thomas asks, but Cuthbert notes that he doesn't finish it, choosing instead to pick at some cut fruits and nuts. "Sorts of meats? Can't imagine you're getting much in the way of big game, are ye?"

“Oh, poultry and pork and mutton see the most use,” Alain explains. “Beef is rarer than venison and rabbit- there are some very well-preserved forests and woodlands between the castle and the next town over, before the scrublands begin- and most of the farms use cows and oxen for dairy or for pulling carts, not to slaughter. Fish, too, since there’s a rivertown none too far from the castle. Shrimp and lobster and crab are sometimes brought inland from the seaside baronies that way.”

“Oh, aye? I’m quite fond of all manner of fish and shellfish,” Thomas says brightly. “Those folks among our tribes that likes to settle, they often will breed and trade cattle, for meat and leather and such more than for labor, as it makes the meat a little less fine. And I’ll have to ask, but it seems to me that we see more goat- the eating of and the leathermaking of- than we do pork or sheeps, aye. Should like to do a nice meal for you lot before I go home, I really think.”

“I suppose we could see to it, or- something like it, at any rate,” Cuthbert says, agreeably enough. He glances at Jamie, but it seems his silent friend is studying the Thegn intently, and does not notice Bert looking. “Do your folk eat big game, then?”

“When it’s there! Deer seem to run the world ‘round, but farther north and we’ve got elk and bear.” He pauses, considering the small handful of hazelnuts in his hand before contemplatively popping them into his mouth. “We don’t eat wolf- a variety of reasons, o’course, not least of which that no one’d like to be the one to suggest huntin’ so noble a beast- but sometimes it does happen that a wolf must be fought or killed.”

“I was wondering where you’d got the wolf pelts in your and your sister’s cloaks,” Cuthbert says, leaning close with his popkin- buttery sliced and lightly-fried peppers with a ham pate- dangling from one hand. “Did the Jarl Grissom kill those wolves _himself?_ I’ve heard-”

“What?” Thomas asks blankly, and Cuthbert waves his popkin-less hand.

“Your father, the Jarl-”

“Lord Allgood,” Thomas says, looking like he is unsure that he could continue with a straight face. “The Jarl is not my father.”

“Well, I just meant-”

“My Mum did kill the wolves who became the cloaks, though, aye,” he says quietly. “Been a-huntin’ with a brace of our hunters when the pack scented the kill they’d made. Mum saved my brother, who’d been with her, but his dad’d been closest, and they’d got to him before anyone could do anything. There were six of’em, great big things, aye. She saved Ronan that day, and his dad was- he’d been the only family Ronan had, and so Mum took him in and made him a Grissom so he’d not go without. Ronan’s not fond of wolf fur, so as soon as I was tall enough he made me take his cloak so Mum wouldn’t feel bad about giving it to him.”

“Oh, that’s awful,” Cuthbert says, frowning. “So- your brother is adopted, then? Because his true parents died?”

“Well, aye, ye didn’t think Mum’d given birth to eleven children, did- no, ah, I see you had,” Thomas says, putting a hand over his mouth. “No, indeed! Most of us are adopted, or the children of wives Mum took on.”

Alain pours himself a glass of water, and one for Thomas as well. “Wives? Here a man might have one wife, though it’s not at all unheard-of for him to have legal gillies- that’s ladies who aren’t his wife but who might bear legal heirs, here. Your tribes allow for more than one wife, though?”

“Aye. Suppose there could be those as have- side-ladies, I suppose,” Thomas mutters, turning bright red in the face, “but it’s better all ‘round to keep a family defined clear, doesn’t it? Travels can be rough and if one should fall to the road, well, better to know that everyone’s cared for the same, aye. Is not just wives, though, could be many husbands, too. Mum’s got a number of those lyin’ around, I think.”

“Is that right? Only I can’t imagine having to share my spouse around, can you?” Cuthbert asks, and Thomas gives him a shy grin. 

“Am youngest and not suited besides, so I won’t be tanist- that’s Rhys, that is, he’s best-suited for the job,  _ I _ say- but I’m not so bad a catch in the ways of our people. Well! Mummy says so, but in terms of simply being able to support a household, why, I should be able to have up to six husbands if I met any that liked the idea. Or wives,” he adds thoughtfully. “Could have an even split, but I suppose it does depend. Most of the women I meet are my sisters or cousins, so have never really truly thought about taking a wife before now.” 

“That’s simply unheard-of in Gilead, you know,” Alain says quietly, eyes fixed on Thomas’s face. “Who’d inherit the family lineage, then? What happens if there’s only one child and more than one family name to carry on?”

Thomas blinks, before blushing and taking a long sip of his water. “I suppose we simply don’t plan our lifelong relationships in those terms. But I do suppose you lot and your gunslinging have to worry about such things.”

“We do,” Cuthbert says, a touch more sternly than he intends. “It’s a noble art and responsibility that we carry, and pass on to our sons.” Thomas nods politely.

“Aye, and what if you’d no sons? For it seems to me your daughters might not be given this responsibility, either,” he says mildly. “Ah, but what would I know of such things, then? My brothers and sisters have all always done only and exactly as they please. Why, I only volunteered to come here because I was looking to visit some of the places I’ve heard about and practice my arts in a new setting-”

“You volunteered for this?” Cuthbert asks, and Thomas gives him a puzzled smile. “You weren’t- weren’t assigned this or trained to ambassadorship before?”

“Well, it seems a touch less difficult than plowing a field or laying a brick wall, doesn’t it?” he replies, blinking. “Been dead easy so far, too.” 

Cuthbert smiles thinly- ignoring Alain’s worried glance, for he doesn’t need reminding that snapping at a foreign dignitary that this is something he’s trained for all his life could be categorized as easy,  _ Alain _ \- and gestures toward the map. 

“It seems to be. We will doubtless have to take this to a higher council to verify, before we confirm any changes. I’m glad to see most of our borders are in accord,” he adds, and Thomas, irritatingly, picks his cucumber popkin back up and starts methodically shredding it in a visible effort to avoid accidentally ingesting any actual cucumber. “I meant to ask, Thomas, the orange ink is very- it’s striking, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”

“Made it,” Thomas replies distractedly, gingerly putting a morsel of now-destroyed popkin in his mouth before speaking with his mouth half-full. “Modified recipe for red- red’s common as anything, I wanted something a little more special-looking- oh, did you notice the glimmer in’t? Very proud of the effect, took ages and ages to find enough mica in the right color- I had a bit of silvery-gray, but t’wasn’t a suitable shade for orange. Ground up the flakes meself, aye.”

“You seem to dabble quite a bit in a variety of disciplines,” Alain says, chin in his hand. He glances at Jamie, before adding, “is there anything you can’t do?”

“Archery,” Thomas replies promptly, grinning. “Aye, I can’t shoot a gun neither, haven’t got any aim at all. And as far as caber tossing goes, well, you do not want to know.” 

“What’s that?” Cuthbert asks, and Thomas huffs, spreading his hands.

“Just imagine, if you will, a tree, wit’ all her branches and roots and bark taken away. Aye? Then imagine someone bare to the waist all gleamed up with oil and picking it up and throwin’ it a distance.” Thomas sighs wistfully. “Am a total disgrace at the games, no matter what Mummy says.” 

“You’ll have to show us some of these games, you know,” Alain says quickly, and Jamie nods ferociously at him. “For the- for the cultural exchange.”

“Oh, aye, be most proper if’n I did,” Thomas agrees wholeheartedly, before giving the three of them a smile. “Am sure there are games of skill and strength here in old Gilead you three’d like to show old Tommy, too.”

“There surely are a fair few,” Cuthbert says, eyeing the wreckage of the discarded remnants of cucumber on Thomas’s plate. “Games of accuracy and skill and strength, a fair few done purely for sport- I’m sure we can find and arrange some local players to give a demonstration.”

“Am quite sure I’d like more to see you three playing these games, not some folk I’ve not met or befriended,” Thomas says, a touch poutingly. “Surely you can play at least a little-”

“To be quite honest, Thomas, most of the games that are played here are not played by gunslingers- we simply never have the time,” Cuthbert admits to him. “Why, between our schooling and our physical and diplomatic training, when would we even have time to learn a sport? No, you simply must allow me to arrange an athletic demonstration, Thomas, there are local lads aplenty- craftsmen’s sons and merchants and such- who would be much more suited to showing you our games than the three of us.” 

“Why- you don’t- you don’t mean to say you’ve none of you- not even for fun, or just to- to enjoy it?” the Thegn asks weakly, and Cuthbert gives him a puzzled smile. “Why, don’t any of you know how to  _ have  _ fun, then?”

“Oh, I didn’t say none of us have any fun,” Cuthbert says hastily, his smile slipping. “Far from it! It’s just that none of us- well, none of us had the spare time to devote to learning a game or sport that didn’t have any bearing on our training. And certainly when we  _ had  _ the time to spare, we didn’t want to spend it learning yet another skill or set of rules, you know!” 

“Oh,” Thomas says, blinking.

“I’m sure we can arrange a demonstration in falconry or sharpshooting if you like, Thomas,” Alain pipes up, and Thomas nods shakily. “Perhaps you and your sister could show us this… caber tossing?”

“Oh- yes,” Thomas says, blinking. “Though Vonnie’s better at the hammertoss, aye.” 

“Oh, I’d like to see that,” Cuthbert says encouragingly, though he truthfully cannot imagine what the point would be of throwing tools around. “Say, Thegn Thomas, why don’t we let the ink dry here tonight and present your first round of questions along with the map to the council tomorrow morn? We will be able to spend the afternoon revising things after the first round of negotiations as long as you don’t, ah, become overheated again like you did earlier today.” 

“Oh- aye, that’s a good idea,” Thomas says, nodding. “Well- likely should be off and putting everything down in another document so’s to hand it over to your councilmen tomorrow, too, I know some folks as prefer to peruse a list of questions and complaints ‘stead of having ‘em volleyed at them from a handsome lad such as me, eh?” He gives Alain and Cuthbert a cheery wink, turning to put his writing implements away, and Cuthbert takes this moment to give Jamie a look heavy with meaning.

“Thomas,” Jamie says, his voice raspy with disuse, and the Thegn straightens up immediately, eyes very round. “Walking down. To the side of the castle where you’re staying.”

“Oh, aye?” Thomas says in a small voice, nodding encouragingly. Jamie makes several seconds of intense eye contact before nodding back. 

“Walk together,” he says in his most inviting tone. Thomas seems flabbergasted for a moment, before squaring his shoulders with a new spring in his step.

“Why, of course! I’d like very much to walk a ways with you, then!” He gives Jamie a sunny smile, before turning and giving Bert and Alain brief, firm handshakes. “Good evening to you both, then, and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow in the counselor’s room, then?”   
  
“Yes, have Jamie show you which one,” Cuthbert says, and he nods, eyes shining. “Good evening, Thomas.”

“We’ll be sure to see you in the morning,” Alain adds, and the Thegn nods again before practically bouncing out of the room, Jamie struggling to keep up with his longlegged gait. Cuthbert takes a long look at the map itself, and is only unstartled by the sudden realization that Alain has been staring knowingly at him because Alain does that sort of thing all the time. 

“What?” Bert asks, and Alain’s smile fades a little.

“We haven’t had much chance to speak together since we came home from Mejis, just the two of us,” Alain says quietly, and Cuthbert feels his face grow hot. “And do not attempt to say that some things don’t need to be said simply because I can often pluck their meaning from your mind, Cuthbert.”

“You could pluck it if you wished,” Cuthbert points out, and it’s Alain’s turn to blush scarlet, his eyes downcast.

“I suppose I am… not sure of what I would find, Bert.” 

“I think,” Cuthbert says, very quietly, “you would find that perhaps I… have been worried that all of these changes spell out disaster and doom for our ka-tet… perhaps that I am worried that there is a change between  _ us _ , and that it might not be for the better if I press you. Alain-”

“Oh, Cuthbert,” Alain sighs. “And supposing it is a change for the better, then?” Cuthbert sighs, shaking his head, and Alain reaches for him, gently taking his hand. 

“We have endured many changes yet,” Bert murmurs, and a wry smile tugs its way onto his face. “Roland and Susan are only but a small change compared to the one we have planned. I only- I only  _ desperately  _ want this silliness with the Troitans to be over with so that I may turn my focus back to what we’re planning, Alain. After that, after I can- then I will be free to have this conversation.”

Alain’s hand is warm around his, safe. 

“I can’t say I ever imagined the Great And Loquacious Cuthbert Allgood, postponing a chance to speak at length and unimpeded,” he says teasingly, and Bert grins at him.

“You’ll tired of my speeches soon enough when I’m the only one speaking,” he replies with an impish air, and to that Alain only smiles in response. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The Thegn’s steps are long and quick and full of a visible nervous energy, and at first it is difficult to keep up- and then Thomas’s steps slow and he stops himself, on a broad and nearly-empty flagstone side-street that lies against the open fields of the training grounds. Beyond the borders of Cort’s field is a series of standing stones, and further on the rolling, empty fields between Gilead and the huge, ancient watchtower to the north. 

“I should like to go there,” Thomas says quietly, turning to fully face Jamie. “Is there a- a path or a road that you know of? I’d like to see it up close, aye.” 

Jamie hesitates, then nods, turning abruptly and striding across the training field in a straight line toward the old watchtower. It’s not private land, nor is it a secret place- abandoned as it is, there’s likely nothing at all worth finding, and it may even be impossible to climb- and if Thomas wants to waste his time searching a monumental relic- good only now for mapmaking and keeping track of where one stands in relation to it- why, that can’t be a bad thing. Thomas jogs after him for a second, glancing uneasily around at the training field, fidgeting with the edges of his gloves, the bag at his waist, the edge of his mother’s borrowed cloak. 

All this Jamie sees, though he cannot say if it is something, yet, that Cuthbert will want to know. They are nearly across Cort’s field when Thomas speaks, in the hurried, hushed tones of one who is afraid of being heard. 

“A- a worrisome and frightful place, this,” he says, and Jamie glances over at him, before shrugging. 

“Lessons here. Every day,” he says, and Thomas nods, wringing his hands a little. 

“I can’t see as how you could stand it, though,” he murmurs, walking a little more closely to Jamie’s side. “This- this place here looks like a bad dream, aye, it does.” 

Jamie’s bad dreams are not of open fields. Jamie’s nightmares are usually of enclosed places- rooms- of being trapped and held or small and bound. A dream of a wide, open place sounds like it would be nice. 

But Thomas casts a fitful, unhappy eye around, as if he sees something else here. Jamie thinks for a moment, and then holds out his hand- Thomas glances at it and starts to reach for it, but Jamie is quick with his spellwork, and a soft, pale glow wraps itself around Jamie’s hand, even though it’s only just beginning to near dusk and the sun is still keeping the whole area well-lit.

“Oh,” Thomas breathes out, in an awed tone. “That’s pretty, that is. Are you a mage or such, then? Only you did such clever work earlier, too- and I  _ am  _ very sorry, Jamie, I know I said but I wanted to say so again, aye, I wouldn’t ever wish to startle or-”

“Apprentice,” Jamie says, interrupting him before he can go down an uncomfortable tangent. Thomas blinks at him, then nods. 

“I-” Thomas trails off, stepping over the neat, stone-lined border of Cort’s domain and into the taller grass. “I thought perhaps you might not speak or hear. Your friends speak for you often, is why, and I thought perhaps you couldn’t.”

“Can,” Jamie tells him, and he nods.

“I have an uncle who cannot,” he says simply. Jamie blinks at him. “That is how I learned the handspeech- he uses it, you know, it’s dead useful because he has much to say but no words for saying it, and it-”

Thomas breaks off, shrugging. “Sometimes that happens to me, as well. My whole family can use it now.”

Jamie considers this for a moment. A way of speaking, without ever having to open his mouth, without ever having to force the traitor of his throat to open, without ever having to struggle or grasp for words that won’t come? He looks suddenly at Thomas, who grins shyly at him. 

“Teach me,” he says, and Thomas’s smile slips for a moment- did he say something wrong? Was it a trick of some kind?

But then Thomas’s smile returns in full bloom, and something curious in it makes Jamie want to smile back. 

“Aye! That I can do, that I can do very well, aye!” He thinks for a moment, before giving Jamie a short, chopping wave. “Hallo.”

“Hello,” Jamie echoes, and Thomas waves again, the same way. Jamie ponders this, then repeats the movement. Thomas beams at him- the movement of his hand, coupled with the glow of the mage-light, makes the shadows of Thomas’s face dance merrily. Jamie does it again, and it is good. 

“Aye, aye! Let me think, let me think, oh-” Thomas jogs a little ahead, picking up random small things- a stone, a fistful of grass, a twig- and tossing them aside, darting around like an impatient puppy on his first trip out of doors. Jamie sees it when he spots the small bunch of wild, pale flowers- his body and face are already turned toward them, but suddenly he becomes alert, his mouth a soft O as he focuses on them. “Perfect, oh perfection, aye!”

Jamie gives a tiny huff of laughter as Thomas bounds over to them and gathers up a great handful of the blooms in one bony hand, giving them an experimental sniff. He then makes a great production of marching back over to Jamie’s side and handing him the rough little bouquet. 

Thomas’s face is turning pink, as are his ears and neck. “Flower.”

Jamie looks up at him, and Thomas gently holds one hand to his face in almost a pincer-shape, moving it from one side of his nose to the other. Jamie copies the sign, and says back to him, “Flower.”

“Aye, flower,” Thomas agrees softly. Jamie looks down at the petals- in the light from his empty hand, they are an almost silvery color, though in sunshine he knows they are more of a pale blue. Thomas’s long fingers sketch a loose circle around them. “Looks like your eyes, don’t you think? Matches the color, I mean to say.”

Jamie looks up at Thomas’s face- he is far enough away that his face can still mostly be seen, and in this light the dark brown of his eyes is a warmer shade, shot through with lines of a yellowy-green. Thomas holds his gaze for a few more seconds, then looks away, his face turning even redder. 

“Aye, very like,” Thomas mutters, almost to himself. Jamie gives the flowers a sniff, trailing a little behind Thomas as he does. They smell like fresh, clean grass, for the most part. There’s only the tiniest, faintest hint of flower-smell in them, and he breathes it in more deeply. 

After a moment of walking in relative quiet Thomas stops, huffing, and gestures at the distant tower. “Not getting any closer, is it? You don’t have to say anything, am just a chatty Tommy, aye. You can tell me to stop,” he adds hastily, and Jamie shakes his head, grinning at him.

“Talk’s fine,” he says, and Thomas perks up. 

Jamie’s grown up with Cuthbert, and therefore he’s used to chattiness, used to the flow of speech that runs sometimes hither and thither and yon. Other people sometimes stop, or wait for him to respond in ways that he cannot, and lose patience with the fact that he doesn’t- Thomas, though, seems to have an endless stream of things to say. Here a long, chuckling treatise on grass- different types, different colors, things that are different in Thomas’s northern homelands. There a delighted examination of a stone that Thomas trips over and picks up, pointing out little flecks of glittering rock in its rough surface as he turns it in the light from Jamie’s hand. A bright, speculative rambling over the nature of the tall standing-stones as they approach and then pass through them, pointing out which edges are man-hewn and which ones couldn’t possibly be.

At first Jamie does try to listen intently, to keep as best a record as he can- but as it goes on he realizes that Thomas is mostly just speaking to hear himself think, reacting out loud to each new thing he sees or smells or touches. At some point Thomas stops, turns, and reflectively tosses a stone from hand to hand, before throwing it at a point high on one of the standing-stones. It bounces off with a light crumble, and Thomas puts his hands on his hips before sighing and turning back to face the northern tower. 

“Sometimes things only look like a thing,” Thomas tells him, and when he makes an encouraging noise Thomas brightens up and goes on another tangent- this one, a story about moths, for it seems Thomas has encountered great big moths the size of his hands out in the woods with his older brothers before, and that they lay against the barks of trees and are completely indistinguishable from the tree itself until you try to lay a hand on one for support and end up with a face full of soft, irritated flying insect. 

“Moths are quite good,” Thomas adds. “Very straightforward of what they like and want, aye. Easy to talk to. Easier’n wasps, oh dear, for those fellows do not like being spoken to at all. Have been stung quite a bit ‘fore Ma forbade me from tryin’ again, aye. D’you have wasps in Gilead, Jamie?” 

Jamie shrugs, and Thomas shudders but for once says nothing else regarding the subject. He stamps his feet a little as he walks, kicking up a cloud of old dust or pollen, and then lets out a terrific sneeze. 

“Oi, stop that,” he mutters to himself, once he’s done. Thomas wanders a bit away as they walk- bending quickly to pick something up off the ground, tossing it just as quickly away- and takes a curving, meandering path to rejoin Jamie on the pathless route toward the tower. There is indeed a dirt road- wide enough for a single horse-cart, perhaps a cart and a person beside- but it weaves and bobs between homesteads, and goes very far out of the way before it turns to a straighter path to the old tower. 

The grass is taller here- past Jamie’s waist in places, high enough to make him feel even smaller- and Thomas seems to be mildly entertained by grabbing small handfuls of it and tossing it back down. 

“Oh, when  _ will  _ we get there? It’s been ever so long,” Thomas complains suddenly, scrubbing at his face. “I don’t suppose you happen to know how far it is to that old tower from the castle, Jamie?”

“Two wheels,” Jamie says, and Thomas groans dramatically.

“Why, that’s three and one half miles, almost, that’s- that’s so many,” he sighs, looking around. “The grass doesn’t get any taller, does it? I’m to lose you for sure if it does, aye!”

Jamie considers this- the grass does get taller, over his head in places, though surely only up to the Thegn’s shoulder at the highest. He makes a decision- he doesn’t decide this very often, but so far Thomas has been alright. And if Thomas is suddenly not-alright, well, Jamie is a gunslinger first and a fire-slinger second. They will simply deal with the repercussions later if Thomas turns out not to be alright. 

Jamie holds his hand out to Thomas. “Gets taller.”

Thomas blinks at him, then down at his hand- and then, realizing what Jamie is offering, gently takes Jamie’s hand in his. It’s much bigger than Jamie’s, and the gloves are made of a good, supple leather, though Jamie thinks he can feel the shape of Thomas’s finger-wraps through it. 

“Thank you,” Thomas says, in a very small voice. “Shouldn’t like to lose you, in, in the grass, you know.”

“Won’t,” Jamie tells him confidently, and Thomas smiles at him.

“Thank you,” he says again, and then puts his open hand flat to his chin, moving it swiftly forward and down. “Thank you.”

Jamie copies the sign with his other hand. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Thomas repeats, and they walk for a while in silence like that. It’s a nice silence- not the silence of being ignored, or the silence of another person fuming in annoyance or fear or fury. There is no  _ waiting  _ in this silence, only a sense of fullness, of stillness. At one point Thomas plucks a long, broad stem of grass, bites thoughtfully into it, and after a moment of chewing drops it to the ground. His hand is warm through his glove, and he doesn’t seem nervous anymore, just observant, even though they’re in grass so high now that all Jamie can see is the sky overhead and the tower in the looming distance. 

When Thomas finally speaks again it’s barely a word at all- just a soft, cooing  _ oh-oh _ , really- and he reaches into the grass with his free hand. He pulls it out, and Jamie hums at the sight of four little orange-brown moths walking around on the palm of his hand.

“D’you want?” Thomas asks, and after a moment Jamie nods jerkily, more to see what he does than anything else. Thomas looks intently at the moths, and they flutter as one over to Jamie’s face, tickling it for a second, before noticing the brightness of the light around his hand and flying over to land on it. Thomas huffs softly. 

“Moths are silly,” he whispers.

“Silly,” Jamie echoes, and Thomas grins at him. It’s… nice. Jamie grins back at him. 

By the time they get to the watchtower Thomas is panting audibly, although he looks and sounds like he’s trying to hide it. It is some minutes after they exit the grass and make it onto the road before the two of them notice that they are still holding hands and gingerly let go of one another. Jamie releases the mage-light, and the moths, confused by the sudden darkness, fly up toward him again and out of sight. 

Thomas examines the tower for a few minutes, before making a loud, appreciative, blustering noise. 

“It’s a great big old thing, aye?” he asks happily, walking stiffly around and shading his eyes as he glances west toward the sunset. Jamie frowns a little at his back- he seems to be favoring his right leg more and more, and when he thinks back to the other night, he’s sure that he’d been trying to favor the left leg instead, when he’d been using his staff to walk. 

“Don’t suppose those vines could be cleared, can they? Only this is not at all what I thought from- Jamie, do you happen to know how old this place might be?” Thomas asks excitedly, and Jamie shrugs and shakes his head. “Looks quite old up close, aye? Looks like a relic of them olden days! Could be from the time of the Old People, maybe!”

“Maybe,” Jamie repeats after him, and he looks around the ground and even backtracks a little, until he finds what he’s looking for- a fair-sized rock that fits into his big hand. 

Having seen him do it to the standing stones, Jamie’s not surprised at all when the Thegn reaches back as if to throw- then pauses, squinting. “Say, that big platform bit- that’s not round, is it?”

“Round,” Jamie tells him, and he frowns.

“Too high to hit w’this,” he murmurs. “But- hm.”

“Why?” Jamie asks him, and he tosses the rock a few times, catching it neatly. 

“Want to see if it’s stone or iron or wood,” Thomas says finally. “Wood’d make sense for most time periods but iron could well be of the Reconstruction period- that of which you Canaanites calls the time of Eld, aye? The art of making such things wasn’t fully lost by then. But if it t’were a stone or stonelike thing, that means it’d have to have been the Old People. And those shining bits in gaps can only be glass, but look you at their size! Isn’t a kiln in operation that could make a pane that wide or tall, you know!”

“Hrm?” Jamie asks encouragingly, and Thomas beams at him.

“Am very interested in them as came before us. Why, many of the ideas in my book was had by them first, and their ruins is what proves it. If something was done by them all so long ago, then that means  _ I _ can do it  _ now _ , oh yes, I can.” He squints at the tower again, then gives an experimental throw- low enough to hit one of the few remaining panes of glass in the windows. It does not shatter but it does go through it, and a huge spiderwebbing of cracks spreads instantly from the small hole. 

“Why! Look at that, Jamie, how did they  _ make  _ that?” Thomas all but wails, clearly delighted. “Am going to write this down, so I am!” 

“Good aim,” Jamie says quietly, and Thomas chuckles a little, digging out his book and his pencil. 

“Good luck, more like,” he says. “Thought it’d hit stone and bounce, or hit iron and twang. This is much better, though!”

Jamie watches him write- the page almost at the very back of his book- with a distant sort of interested jealousy, for writing and reading have always been something he simply can’t seem to make his eye want to do. He can spot the movement of a shadow at a hundred yards, yes, but words begin to blur by the time they’re in writing distance. The watchtower must be very interesting and important, though, for the Thegn to fill an entire page and a half about it. 

Thomas puts the book away and starts to take a step, then freezes in place with a faint hiss.

“Hurt again?” Jamie asks softly, and Thomas gives him a faintly guilty smile.

“Didn’t want to say anything,” he says, then, lowering his voice, “Have- have been told a bit, you know, of- of what Canaanites think of those men that bear injury too easy.” He shrugs, lowering his gaze. “Only I suppose am not very good at hiding, am I?”

“Not all bad,” Jamie tells him, and the look on Thomas’s face is relieved and grateful. “Help you back.”

“Thankee,” Thomas says, then signs it to Jamie again, “thank you.”

It is not so terrible to hold Thomas’s hand again, or let him lean against Jamie’s side on the long walk back. It takes longer, and Thomas’s gentle speech- about what he wonders the old watchtower was for, what it might have been called, what the inside of it must look like- starts to drag and tighten as the pain gets steadily worse. They are nearly back to the standing stones before Jamie pauses and gives Thomas’s arm a gentle tug.

“And these! I shan’t believe they haven’t a utility, no,” Thomas mutters, almost to himself, before turning and giving Jamie a quizzical little smile. “Aye, Jamie?”

“Book,” Jamie says slowly, and Thomas waits patiently. Finally Jamie points at the bag on his hip. “See it?”

“Of course!” Thomas seems deeply surprised and very pleased, digging it out and handing it over. Jamie smiles up at him as large as he can, pocketing it. “Oh, only do give it back at some point, I have another that’s empty yet but I want to make sure I copy some things down.”

“Yes,” Jamie agrees. If there’s anything in the book that Cuthbert wants or needs, well, this is a bonus-

-and if there’s anything in there that perhaps Alain might enjoy reading to Jamie, well. Then that’s an even bigger bonus.

“Late,” Jamie says, for the sky is nearing dark now. “Come.” 

“Mm, yes. I should say I am looking very much to a long bath after this,” Thomas says cheerfully, though his voice is starting to be quite strained. “And a nice long sleep, too, aye. Want to be well and fresh to have the meeting tomorrow morn- though, you’ll be there, won’t you? Then that’ll make me quite fresh enough, I should say!”

“Won’t,” Jamie says apologetically, then, truthfully, “Cuthbert and Roland, though.”

“Haven’t met Roland- oh, no, yes I have, a silly old Tommy,” he says. “Shall be sorry to miss you and Alain, then.”

“Lunchtime,” Jamie promises, and the Thegn can’t help but grin all the rest of the way to his chancery. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 tags/warnings: good ol fashioned medieval misogyny, some vaguely distressing references to things, some mention of food-related sensory issues/disordered eating

“You look terrible,” Roland says grimly, and Cuthbert gives him a knifelike smile as they near the entrance to the councilroom.

“What a kind and loving assessment for your right-hand and best beloved,” he says, and Roland sighs. “What a dear and heartfelt thing to say to your dearest and oldest-”

“Hush, Bert,” he says flatly, and Cuthbert hushes. “You look tired, is all.”

“I was up all night reading an intensely pleasant volume of poetry,” Cuthbert grumbles. He is, of course, exceedingly pleased with Jamie’s ingenuity and resourcefulness. The problem- which _isn’t even_ a problem, not for anyone but for Bert’s own lingering annoyance- is that, instead of writing down all his malicious plotting and incriminating schemes in his private booklet like any sane person, the Thegn has apparently filled its pages with daily observations, partial diagrams for poorly-notated machinery, snippets of extraordinarily flowery poetry, half-completed lists of things he’s meant to do, and cramped little drawings of animals, rocks, and insects. There was a welcome change partway through, when Cuthbert got to the detailed notes the Thegn’d taken while reviewing the first treaty. The problem with _those_ is that none of what the Thegn took note of or thought about modifying is at all unreasonable. There is simply an entire lack of devilishness in the too-sweet ramblings of a man who seems to think that a community gardening effort ought be undertaken at their borders so that travelers always have something nice to look forward to.

The rest of Thomas’s notes are half-finished: a word or two, followed by a question, and a little note to himself to Ask Someone Later about it. There is a brief notation near the back- _find/check up little Greytail, leave food_ \- and a summary of their first official meeting- when Cuthbert flips back a page or two he also finds a stunningly optimistic mention of their first _unofficial_ meeting- as well as a brief paragraph about how handsome and kind Jamie and Alain and Cuthbert are. Bert’d almost think this a bit of a false-clue to throw him off the scent if it wasn’t for the subsequent pages singing Jamie’s praise, the praise of the burly servant-girl who has befriended his sister, and the praise of whoever it was that brewed his morning tea that day.

The final pages are as Jamie predicted- a detailed description of the trip to the old watchtower, some conjecture on the building and material of it and the old Standing Stones, and a final note to himself- _flowers done, cotton next._

Nothing that could be used against him or his tribe legally. Nothing that could make it easier to plant something in the chancery or among his belongings, if it came to that. Especially irritatingly, nothing that could at all justify Bert’s feelings of mistrust and annoyance.

He just seems to be a bit of a sappy romantic with enough leisure time to have several unrelated hobbies. Cuthbert wants to be disappointed and finds that he cannot force himself to be. He’s good-natured enough that he’s clearly won his way into Jamie’s good graces, if the way Jamie practically glowed all night was any indication, and even Alain- who is much more guarded with the Thegn ever since Touching his confusing, unpleasant mind yesterday- grinned and repeated every sweet bit of nonsense he found that related to Jamie in the pages, making their dear friend immensely flustered to hear. What’s more, it does rather seem that- beside the matter of their borders- there couldn’t possibly be anything objectionable in the Thegn’s proposed changes to the treaty itself, which points to a swift ending to this entire distraction so that Cuthbert can focus on more important matters.

At least, he consoles himself, there will be no cause to speak to Steven Deschain much more over this topic.

Cuthbert gives his best and oldest friend a thin smile as they enter the councilroom. “Am I at least presentable, dear?”

“You’re almost usually presentable,” Roland says, a tiny attempt at a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Even a sleepless night cannot rob you of your good looks, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”

“Ah, well, as long as you think so,” Bert replies. “You seem to be quite chipper yourself. I suppose I have dear Susan to thank for that.”

“It’d be wrong to pretend otherwise,” Roland says, all mock gravity.

“I shall arrange for a basket of fruit to be sent to her, I think,” Cuthbert says, and Roland gently cuffs his arm through the stiff material of his formal working jacket.

“Only if you deliver it yourself,” he says, and Cuthbert’s smile slips.

“If I but could-” he begins, but the door opens and the elder Council steps in- his father, Roland’s father, Alain’s father, as well as Marten-the-Sham and a pair of clerks, a cartographer, and a trio of other landed and titled gunslingers whose home counties lay in the Baronies closest to the Troitan lands. It is a smaller council than Cuthbert expected- ah, but this should at least mean the way to completion will be short.

Robert gives Cuthbert a warm smile and a wink behind Steven’s back. Steven does not acknowledge either one of them.

“Where is the Thegn’s party?” Steven asks, once they’re all seated.

“They approach from the Western corridor, my lord,” Marten tells him softly, eyes flicking toward Bert’s face for a moment. “Enjoying the sights, perhaps.”

Sure enough, the door opens- poor superfluous Geoffrey trotting desperately alongside Thomas’s striding gait, Siobhan Grissom entering at a more stately pace with another Troitan at her heels. There is a faint smile on the Thegn’s face, and Bert suddenly and fully knows that he’s dying to say something sweet and complimentary about the castle itself, about some lovely random inconsequential thing he saw on the way.

Cuthbert almost smiles at the realization before he remembers to keep his face serious for the meeting, and also that he is not here to think that Thomas is charming.

Which he surely doesn’t, though Jamie and Alain both seem to think he is.

“My Lord-” Geoffrey pants, but it is one of the titled gunslingers- Fletcher, son of Bennett, as Cuthbert recalls- who speaks over him.

“This is not a place for wives, Thegn Grissom. You’ll have to ask the lady to step outside during the work of men,” he says, not unkindly. Thomas’s eyes turn toward him, marking his face for later, before he looks at Lord Deschain.

“Ah, my Lord Torrance, the Thegn’s _sister_ is here,” Geoffrey says, casting a worried glance at the Troitans. “A-and she is, indeed, a member of the embassy and here in support of the Thegn’s ambassadorship-”

“Is this to become a parlor for gossiping women, then?” Chris Johns asks sternly, and Bert sees Thomas’s nostrils flare slightly. “We are here to discuss legal matters. Any misunderstanding on the part of the visiting party is their own. This is not a time nor a place for birdlike chatter-”

“Now, Christopher, there’s no need to speak harshly in this hall, either,” Bert’s father cuts in, frowning at his ka-mate.

“My Lord-” Geoffrey says miserably, and Bert would almost feel sorry for the man. Thomas steps forward, eyes very hard over the soft, silly smile he still wears.

“Geoffrey, I’m sure we’re not getting anywhere useful with ye speakin’ for me, aye?” he asks sharply, giving the man’s shoulder a gentle pat. “I should think there’s no reason t’persist in muddyin’ the waters of our talk with extra mouths. My _sister-_ ” he emphasizes, turning that little smile Fletcher’s way, “is no less learned or capable of this discourse than any here. Your ways seem different here, but surely there’s no insult meant by such foolery as claiming that a woman can’t speak sensibly in politics, aye?”

“You’d watch your tongue if you had any interest in keeping it,” one of the other gunslingers- Etienne, son of Claude- snaps, and only then does Thomas’s vaguely sweet smile lengthen into something crude and lascivious.

“Why, no more’n you’d watch yours, then-” he starts, and Steven slaps a hand down on his chair’s arm.

“That is _enough_. Thegn Grissom, there is indeed no insult meant to any individual Troitan, but here our laws are plain. This meeting cannot continue in the presence of a woman, be she your sister or otherwise. There is too much at stake in this hall during official use, to allow it to be carried so on the lips of one of her sex,” he says, and at the sharp way Thomas turns toward him everyone in the hall- Roland and Cuthbert included- stiffens, though the Thegn does indeed appear to be unarmed.

“Y’seem to-” Thomas starts, and his sister puts a hand on his shoulder, eyeing the array of gunslingers with a grim expression.

“I’ll not be the cause of such stalling,” she says simply. “And am not optimistic enough to dream this’d be the last of such meetings. Thomas can handle this from here, and I will be present at the Jarl’s side when comes time for the official signing. Good day to you.”

Thomas looks like he very badly wants to stop her and knows that he cannot, fuming visibly as she turns crisply and walks out of the room.

“If all distractions have been removed-” Steven says, and Thomas’s jaw tightens as he forces himself to smile again. “Bring forth the map.”

The court cartographer gives the Troitans an uneasy look, before bustling over to the table in the middle of the room and spreading out the map they’d drawn up last night- New Canaan’s official borders in royal blue, the Troitan border proposal in orange. Thomas, as close as he is, takes a single long look at it before turning his gaze back to Steven. His eyes flick but once toward Cuthbert, that forced, false smile still on his face.

“The matter of the border discrepancy must be addressed foremost, as a great deal of our proposed treaty relates to this,” Steven says. “Of most concern is the fact that in many places, the Troitan proposal wholly or partially engulfs entire homesteads and ranches, and in many spots and border crossings splits sovereign land in twain.”

“Does it, now,” Thomas says, all teeth. “Oh, dear, and here we were so very sure that we’d been careful not to split anyone’s home between us. Something of a clerical error, perhaps.”

“Indeed? For no rancher or farmer’d be glad to have his land halved and given away to some-” Fletcher says heatedly, and at a stern glare from Robert he clears his throat. “To some foreign nation, no.”

“No,” the Thegn agrees. “For surely was our intent to preserve homesteads as they are and whole, and those what fell on our side of the border would be afforded those protections we offer our own-”

“Is _that_ what your kind calls the braying of half-naked madmen in skirts?” Etienne asks, and the third gunslinger- one Bert barely recognizes, Nikolai-something, grunts in agreement.

Thomas’s smile doesn’t budge. “Well, we do our best, as it were. As a matter of fact, many of the homesteads included in this list show signs of poor use- some blighted by pest an’ disease, some just poorly watered- and agreed to the change of hands and of tax if we could produce results on those fronts.”

“And what did you promise them, the rains? An end to disease?” Marten asks silkily, silencing the soft rumble of near-speech from all sides. For the first time, Thomas’s smile looks shaken, though he manages to keep it plastered on. “Even if one or two of the farmers at the border could be swayed by such empty promises, none would be satisfied by the limits of your hedge witchery, boy.”

“We do our best,” Thomas repeats, before looking back at Steven. “The matter is a serious one, as you so put. We certainly do not intend to split any man’s land, with but a few exceptions where necessary-”

“And who exactly deemed it necessary, then, to just fritter away the inheritance of his fathers to the likes of you?” Etienne demands. “No man fool enough-”

“Am no expert, not as the likes o’you,” Thomas says brightly. “Only if you might behold that this-” he taps an orange line rapidly. “-does indeed mark a river, does it not? A river with but a single bridge at this time. Surely you can see how we might be quite interested in using this natural border as a neutral space, and have quite agreed on a handsome bit o’pay for the gentleman what owns the bits on t’other side of it.”

“Agreed-upon by your word only,” Steven says flatly. “We have no testimony of the landowner in question or the gunslingers who serve that Barony that a fair or just payment has been offered or taken.”

“And what payment d’you think fair and just, Lord Deschain?” Thomas asks softly. “Half these homesteads were in tribal hands aught but two, three generations back. How did they get paid for, to be numbered among your possessions now?”

“That’s twice you speak above your station, boy,” Marten says coolly, and Thomas shoots him a look- puzzled? frightened?- before schooling his expression again. It’s… odd, and oddly familiar to Cuthbert, though he is not sure why. “Do not presume to think that just because your rabble may speak to you in this manner that you have leave to speak to the high dinh of Gilead thusly.”

“Will be keepin’ this in mind, I will,” Thomas says softly, before shooting Marten a dark smile. “Am just a boy, as you so put it, so you must forgive me. Who exactly are _you_ to be speakin’ to me so?”

“I am but a humble servant to my master,” Marten says, casting a simpering eye Steven’s way, and Thomas tilts his head.

“I am no servant, and it would serve _you_ to remember such,” he says simply, before directing his gaze toward Steven again. “The border-markings are a serious undertaking, and so you will perhaps forgive our mapmakers and surveyors for any errors you may find in this first draft, aye? We will present your council with an amended map upon its completion, and we will be sure to gather what writs of receipt and tally-marks we have collected to support any changes. Those bits we don’t have evidence of, we will invite the council to remark upon.”

“Is this acceptable to the council?” Steven asks, and most of the gunslingers agree verbally- Robert a little loudly, shooting the silent Nikolai-something a glare for his silence. “Then we are agreed. If there is nothing else you wish to-”

“Oh, alack, there is,” Thomas says cheerfully, unclasping the wolf-pelt cloak and tossing it onto the table. There is another unhappy murmur of voices- again, Thomas does not seem to be wearing a stitch of clothing above the waist, and the wolf pelt removes so much of his bulk that he truly does look to be a boy of sixteen, despite his many interwoven tattoos. He laces his gloved fingers and stretches his arms overhead, a display that _anyone_ would find deeply distracting on its own due to the rippling effect of his tattoos over his bare body, and which is accompanied by a truly startling array of cracks, pops, and snapping sounds from every one of his joints. “Geoffrey, Roth, why’n’t you two be a good pair o’lads and set up the display, aye?”

“The- display, son?” Robert asks weakly, and Thomas beams at him as Geoffrey and the Troitan- evidently, Roth- set up a small tripod and hang a canvas bearing the Thegn’s now-familiar handwriting in huge letters over it.

“Oh, aye. Intended to hand out sheets, you know, but then I thought, why, Tommy, you’d better just copy it down once for all to see, then, eh?”  Cuthbert frowns a little- he knows that his father’d promised his mother a late breakfast together, and at this rate, it seems like he will miss the start of the meal entirely. “Item the first, as you can see- you all know how to read, I take it? You, Servant, is that something they teach your kind here?”

Thomas gives Marten a bland smile, which Marten does not return.

“Everyone here can read, Thegn Grissom,” Steven says flatly, and Thomas claps a little.

“Why, I suppose there’s something to be said for civilization after all, aye? How generous you lords turn out to be! Now, as you can see, our first item is one that will benefit both of our nations, so it will. Regarding the taxation of Troitans living within the cities- why, it is a delightsome prospect, isn’t it? Imagine what fun festivals will be!- do you know that, through some oversight, the first draft of the treaty contained a few clerical errors of its own? For it suggests that settlers would be barred from owning property or having access to civil protections and rights, yet would be paying the same taxes of any Canaanite with the ability to make use of such things! I know that ye’d never choose so to dissuade any Troitans from settling- goodness, think of the good their taxes would do, eh?”

He slaps the canvas. “The proposed corrections are simple enough. We can see that ye’d be a bit less keen on allowin’ a foreign nation to own land within your borders, but businesses, properties- those things, aye, we’d own and run, those few of us that feels such need to step away from the life of wander. Taxes we do not disagree on, for any who benefits from your country by rights must pay what is owed, then- but those who live and work here are to have such access to those benefits, same as any Canaanite. Is only fair, after all.”

“This is not unreasonable,” Robert says, likely to hurry things along. Chris makes a dismissive sound, and Marten gives Steven a single, knowing look.

“Perhaps you misunderstand,” Steven says at last, “how very little indeed we wish to play nursemaid to the wayward and disabled members of your tribes.” Beside Cuthbert, even Roland jerks slightly in surprise at how bluntly his father speaks.

Thomas only smiles, and nods once he knows that Steven has ceased to speak.

“Aye, could well be,” he says agreeably enough. “We never like to be beholden or do less than what is expected of us, as it might be. I have leave to offer you this- a token of gratitude, you may understand it, for accepting our terms in this matter- seven pure-threaded calves from the Grissom family’s herd, each year for seven years. Tis a symbolic gift from the sagas, to be sure, but I dare say in seven years’ time you’ll have a delightful stock of good leather and eating.”

Marten’s face is sour. Cuthbert wonders if Steven has any idea what that sort of offer would mean for some of the smaller farms- why, if they could breed the cows themselves, there would be a surplus of beef and leather in two decade’s time, not to mention the use any impure or mutie stock would be for pulling carts or operating machinery.

From the short, sharp nod Steven gives, though, he’s smart enough to see a good deal when he’s offered it. Robert and Chris both meet his eyes, neither of them finding any objection to this.

“We accept this gift and your gratitude. The terms will be revised to your specifications, Thegn Grissom,” he says stiffly. Thomas beams at him.

“Aye, we are in agreement, then, ain’t we,” he says happily- ah, but that hardness from earlier, it seems, still hasn’t left his eyes. “This is one more matter I should like to bring to the council, along similar lines. What legal rights or accordances would you say any Canaanite wishing to renounce citizenship and join the tribes- even temporarily- should be afforded? For I couldn’t help but notice the treaty didn’t say.”

“Who would do such a thing willingly?” Fletcher asks, a bit haughty-sounding. “No offense is intended, Thegn Grissom, but who would indeed abandon the safety and surety of civilization for- as you put it- a life on the wander?”

“No offense is taken, Lord- Torrance?” he confirms, and Geoffrey nods weakly at him. “And I should not begin to guess, aye, only I’m sure at some point some Canaanite may. Very well- my people will draw up our recommended terms prior to our next meeting, and you lot may review the terms then, aye?”

“Fine,” Steven says, and Robert clears his throat. “Is that all for today, then, Thegn Grissom?”

“I should think so,” the Thegn says cheerfully. “Say, you lot mind if I take the map with me so we can be sure our next effort bears more accuracy, then?”

“Take it and make good use of it, I say,” Robert says urgently, and Steven nods. The Thegn nods tightly, rolling it up in his hands with a series of brisk movements.

“Roth, Geoffrey, would you two lads be quite kind enough to take me cloak an’ display back to the chancery? I would have a quick word with my liaison, aye,” he says to the pair of them, as the elder councilmen file out of the room- Robert a little quicker than usual. Lavinia _has_ been planning this breakfast for a week now, Cuthbert recalls.

“Go meet up with Jamie and Al, we’re all meant to luncheon together, you know,” Cuthbert murmurs to Roland, who gives Cuthbert a steady, even look until Bert huffs a sigh. “Please.”

“Of course,” he says, giving the Thegn a curt nod. “Good morning to you, Thegn Grissom.”

“Aye, and you, Wee-dinh Roland,” Thomas offers, still baring his teeth in what _should_ by all rights be a silly, sweet grin.

“Just Roland will suffice,” Roland says, and Thomas nods.

“And you might call me Thomas, then, too, aye, handsome?” he asks, his smile a little softer as Roland turns bright pink and scurries- for lack of a better word- out of the councilroom.

“I apologize for not having mentioned before,” Cuthbert says, once they’re alone. Thomas inclines his head at him, and he continues hastily, “regarding your sister. It simply hadn’t occurred to me- and that is no excuse. I cry your pardon, Thomas.”

“I’m not the one forced to leave the room, am I? I’ll grant what pardon I may for my irritation at Canaan’s ways, but you’d better consider cryin’ hers, too,” he says, before tapping Bert’s shoulder with the end of the rolled-up map. “But that’s not what I wish to discuss with’ee. Come, walk with me.”

They end up stepping outside into the Western corridor, and it strikes Cuthbert that the wind is stronger and fresher here than in other parts of the castle- a bit sunbaked, perhaps, but less full of the various smells of humanity that the rest of the castle wears like a heavy veil.

“I want very much to like all of you, you know,” Thomas says, after several minutes of walking. “And certainly I don’t like to think ill of anyone, no, I do not.”

“I don’t know what you mean by such things,” Cuthbert says, and Thomas stops, holding the map out to him.

“You mean to tell me that you lot can aim wi’your eye, not w’your hand and other such _codswallop_ but ye can’t use them eyes t’aim at the _map_ we spent an hour drawin’ out over dinner, then?” Thomas asks harshly, and Cuthbert sees real fury in his eyes before he takes a deep breath, stepping back.

Bert unfurls the map- and pauses, frowning. From far away he couldn’t see what he can see now- several of the borderlines in orange are subtly different than the borderlines he saw Thomas draw himself, and most notably several of the freehold farms that had been firmly on the Troitan side of the boundary were now indeed split in half or in pieces.

“Why- I don’t see how- the borders have been moved, Thomas, the ones you drew? How did you see such detail from where you stood? Did you have the lines memorized?” Cuthbert says, and Thomas scoffs at him.

“ _Look at it,_ Cuthbert. I cooked and mixed my orange myself, you might remember- labored over it ages, aye, I did. My ink shimmers in the light- tis the mica, it’s a devil of a time making the infusion. Not one speck of glitter here, though. This fucking thing was drawn after last night, by some poor fool who didn’t think I’d notice the change in my own map’s _ink_ , hm?”

Cuthbert’s heart sinks as he moves the parchment and confirms that no, there is no telltale glimmer of false-gold in the orange ink.

“Thomas, I- I had no idea that this happened. I cry your pardon, of course, but- well. This is serious, for it presents the problem of my offices and documents being tampered with,” Cuthbert says, frowning.

“Oh, an’ I’m t’be the fool that believes you?” Thomas snaps, before sighing, drawing his hand down his face. “Don’t wish to be angry with’ee, Cuthbert, only I am feeling a touch out of settlement, so I am. Aye, you want me to believe you’re innocent of this forgery, then, and I will- I suppose- but you’d ought to keep whoever it is that did such foolery away from official works, then, for a second such instance will simply- why, I’ll be forced to tell my Mum about it, see that I don’t.”

Cuthbert barks a laugh, trailing off when the Thegn gives him a puzzled frown.

“...you will forgive me if I don’t allow my documents to stay in your possession, aye?” he says shortly, and Cuthbert sighs and nods.

“Of course, Thomas, I expect no less,” he says. Thomas nods again, turning and walking back toward his chancery- without his cloak, Bert can see this close to that, under the sinuous patterned clan tattoos, there appears to be a set of very, very old scars, lacing over each other on his back. Something about it is intensely- almost stupidly- familiar, and it infuriates Cuthbert that he can’t recall why that is. It puts him in mind of something else familiar, though. “Thomas, what did you mean?”

“Mm?” The Thegn gives Cuthbert a barely-polite look, eyebrows raised.

“Earlier, when you said we aim with our eyes,” Cuthbert presses. “You spoke the first part of a gunslinger’s lesson, just now. Even among the people of New Canaan, most who don’t live within Gilead’s walls don’t know those words. Where did _you_ hear that?”

“I did?” The Thegn blinks at him, for a moment lost. “I- I don’t know, Cuthbert. Just some bit of doggerel that catches easy in the brain, I’d say. I’m sure it’s not hard to start listing people have met me that knows such words and might say them in my hearing, though.”

“That might well be,” Cuthbert agrees, but deep down- well, if Thomas didn’t hear it from a gunslinger, he would have heard it from a failed gunslinger, someone who’d been sent West.

The thought is not an easy one, for those exiles tend to turn their ire and harrier’s eyes toward the Affiliation sooner rather than later.

“Cuthbert,” Thomas says quietly, gazing distantly away for a moment. “I have a question.”

“We’ll see if I have an answer,” Cuthbert suggests, and Thomas shoots him a faint, largely unamused smile at that.

“I know down to my bones, so I do, that no one of my party would tamper with the map this way,” he says in a low, soft voice. “That no one would disrespect me so, and that no one would have aught to _gain_ by doing so. Why are you so quick to agree that some Canaanite has done this?”

Cuthbert opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t know how he can explain it without sounding like a paranoid brat, without sounding like he’s pointing the fingers of blame at those he is known to quarrel with. Thomas waits patiently for him to speak, at least, and after a moment Bert shakes his head.

“It is very simple to me that only a- a Canaanite would have anything to gain, Thomas, either from your acceptance of the change or from your reaction to it. I could not say who is responsible simply because there are too many to choose from,” he says slowly. “I do not mean to derail this process. Gilead does not want war with your people, and it does not benefit our nation to ignore or oppress yours. We want- we need- peace between us. Is that… is that something your tribes want or need, as well?”

“It is,” Thomas says coolly. “Believe it or not, ‘tis hard to raise a new generation of- what was the word?- _braying half-naked madmen in skirts_ , if the old one first must battle to the death over meaningless squabbles with civilization, aye.” Thomas looks away, tapping nervously against his leg. “I don’t wish to have this conversation with you again, Lord Allgood.”

“No, nor I,” Cuthbert agrees, sighing again. “Well, I- will we be seeing you at luncheon?”

“Jamie will be there?” he asks, and Cuthbert nods when he turns to look. “Then yes. Do extend my apologies to your lord father, by the way. I’m sure I didn’t intend for him to be late to his previous engagement.”

“I will do this,” Cuthbert says, wary again. “How did you know my father had a previous engagement that he was running late to, though?”

“Oh, that,” Thomas says, and grins wolfishly. “No sinister reason, if you fear such. He simply looked quite antsy about the britches and then flew the room soon’s as he was let to. Easy enough assumption to make, innit?”

“He did, at that,” Cuthbert agrees- and yes, Robert would likely be in for a sharp word or two from Lavinia for being late. It’s a sound enough explanation, it seems, and yet- like Thomas’s earlier vagueness regarding the gunslinger’s lesson- it doesn’t really feel correct or whole. “Do you have any preferences for lunch?”

“Surprise me,” Thomas suggests, then smiles again, this one warmer and realer. “Not too badly, though, my poor tribal heart can’t handle many more shocks today.”

“I’ll be sure to inform the cooks,” Cuthbert says, and Thomas snorts and waves him off as he heads back to the chancery.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lunch is a somewhat unbalanced plate- chopped and roasted potatoes with strips of braised pork cooked in mustard cream- and the Thegn tries gamely to finish his portion whenever he sees someone looking, but it’s clear that this, too, is not to his taste. His cloudy mood is brightened somewhat, though- he is seated at the head of the short, intimate table with Roland at the other end, and with Jamie and his sister- invited at the last minute on his insistence- on either side of him. It’s not so bad an arrangement for Cuthbert, either, for it means he and Alain sit at Roland’s sides, just as Bert prefers.

Siobhan Grissom, it turns out, is only less talkative than her brother because most people are. She is also somewhat older- five years older, as a matter of fact, for Thomas mentions it when he tells a terribly charming story of being too young to do more than cheer her on in their tribal games and accidentally distracting her from what would have been a sure and crushing win against her opponent in the hammertoss.

“You misremember, Tommy,” she murmurs, once he’s done. “Gwyneth Connell’s throwing stance is without flaw, brother.”

“Our Vonnie also very modest,” he says, shooting her a frankly adoring smile. “Am blessed of her, we are. And blessed of me she is, too, for I’m the best baby brother she has, aye!”

“The only baby brother, lovey,” she retorts, before gesturing at his plate. “Eat thee a meal ‘fore I set our Ma on you.”

“Ohh, Vonnie,” he grumbles, spearing a bit of potato on his fork and being sure to eat it slowly at her. Jamie’s eyes are very bright as he regards the Thegn with blatant interest- well, blatant to Cuthbert and Alain, who nudge one another under the table about it until Roland hisses at Cuthbert to stop kicking his ankle.

“Say, Siobhan,” Alain says smoothly, taking her attention away from her brother- who, Cuthbert can’t help but notice, quickly hides some of his potato under his pork as soon as her eyes are turned. “It seems you are of an age with my older sister, Claire. I believe she mentioned meeting you at the Welcoming Feast?”

“Oh, yes,” Siobhan says, brightening immensely- for a moment it’s very clear that she and Thomas are kin- and putting her chin in her hand. “I remember her. Looks quite like you, doesn’t she? A deeply striking beauty, that one. I- I wasn’t sure she’d remember, it was a very short meeting.”

“Oh, she’s done nothing but ask after you ever since,” Alain assures her, smiling that faintly teasing and mysterious smile of his. It’s certainly a mark in her favor that she seems to find it as charming as Cuthbert does, a reddening tinge coloring her cheeks. “And- forgive the breech in protocol, Roland-”

“Okay,” Roland says mildly, stuffing his face with pork.

“-but she simply begged me to pass along an invitation to you. She is planning a market-day on the first of next week, you see, and would like to take the opportunity to give you the- please pardon the wording, this next part is all Claire- The Ladies Tour of Gilead.”

“Which Lady’s tour is that? Oh, a silly daft Tommy, it’s Claire’s Tour of Gilead, that’s the- that’s the Lady,” Thomas says, and when Siobhan shoots him a look he gives her an innocent smile, spearing a potato and putting it in his mouth to show her. “I say you should, Vonnie.”

“I- oh, I don’t know that I could, we have had so much to work on, and more yet with the- with the new map that was requested,” she demurs, dabbing a napkin at her mouth almost exactly the way a courtly lady would. She looks, Cuthbert thinks suddenly, ever increasingly familiar, when she does so-

“Oh, that’s not true at all, is it,” Thomas says cheerfully. “Why, just today you were moanin’ and groanin’ that you hadn’t enough to do at the chancery and that you was gettin’ restless to explore and meet a lady or two. And look! A lovely lady has invited ye out and about, do say yes, Vonnie, do-”

He is cut short with the soft noise of a boot hitting an ankle, and Siobhan turns a deeply reddening, neutral expression Alain’s way.

“I should very much like to go to market with your sister, Alain, only- well, I have been advised that it’s not so wise an idea, being what I am-”

“A vicious kicker of brothers, you mean?” Thomas grumbles good-naturedly under his breath, which she ignores.

“-a woman of Troi, alone and unchaperoned. Why, think of the- the danger, if some rough and disgruntled man were to corner us in some dark alley with grievances against the tribes-”

“-yeah, you’d be cleaning his blood out for days, so you would,” Thomas says, and she buries a knife- not any of the knives set at the table, mind- in his pork, flipping it to expose the previously-hidden potatoes.

“Well- if that’s what’s stopping you, Vonnie-oh, why, I’m sure I don’t mind playing the chaperone,” Thomas says, grinning at her and plucking her knife from his plate with a delicate hand. “Should hate for you to be unable to have a bit of fun just because you’re afraid of some rough old Canaanite, eh?”

“Well, that settles it, does it not?” Alain asks, his mouth twitching against the urge to smile- it seems a bit of a barbaric display, but not too different, if Cuthbert is entirely honest, from what he’s seen Alain and Claire and even level-headed Melisende get up to behind closed doors. Cuthbert puts his cutlery down, thinking quickly and exchanging a glance with Alain- the Thegn can’t really be allowed to go about the castle and the grounds unchaperoned, either, and Cuthbert- careful not to kick Roland, who knows naught of the meaning of discretion- gently moves his ankle forward, pressing it against Alain’s.

“And- you know what, Siobhan and Thomas,” Alain says, faltering slightly. “I could take the day off and join the three of you, in fact. I’m very sure my sister won’t mind at all, or think me crowding her.”

“Why, that sounds like a wonderful idea!” Thomas says, patting his own sister’s arm. “I think so, anyway!”

“Well, that’s simply splendid, is it not?” Cuthbert asks, beaming at them. “I’m afraid I’d been about to ask you for a bit of a break myself, you know- there’s quite a bit of paperwork I’ve yet to complete regarding some of my more recent projects, and of course, there are a few proposals I’d like to work on a little with Jamie here before I present them to your watchful eye, Thomas-”

As hoped, Thomas’s mouth twitches, trying against his better judgement to smile, and Cuthbert continues.

“-and having Gilead’s most enviable siblings give Troi’s own dashing sibling pair a tour of the market is simply perfect! As well,” Cuthbert adds, leaning toward Siobhan with his most charming smile on his face, “knowing how Claire makes friends, why, I’m sure she’ll have legions and legions of eligible and handsome young fellows that she’ll make up some pretext to introduce you over! She’s quite the romantic, our Claire, and will surely find you a fellow to your liking- assuming, of course, you haven’t found a Canaanite to your liking already, eh?”

He follows it with an outrageous wink, which she seems completely and heathenously unmoved by.

“T’wouldn’t be my place to say, I’m sure,” she replies coolly, and turns back to her brother. “I had better see some of that meat gone the next time I glance this way, Tom.”

“Aye, Vonnie-oh,” Thomas sighs down at his plate.

“Say, speaking of taking a day to market, Cuthbert,” Roland says suddenly, glancing over. “I’m hoping to get Susan something made in time for her birthday. I’ll need you to meet me so we can speak to a few craftsmen.”

Cuthbert sighs at him, before reaching over and giving his hand a pat. “Well, I am indeed extremely busy, Roland, but I will have time made in my schedule, I’m sure.”

“That’s great, Bert,” Roland says, giving him a brief smile that does a little towards easing the stress laying over Bert’s heart ever since the events of this morning. “I’ll await your courier, then.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You owe me,” Claire says pleasantly, without moving her lips or teeth as she smiles winningly at Thomas and his sister from a distance. Alain has to check to make sure that she’s not Touch-sending it, but no- she’s just got very good at faking a smile while issuing threats, it seems. “Course I have, most society girls couldn’t catch a Touch-sent threat if I sent it with a hammer.”

“I don’t see why you’re so ruffled,” Alain says mildly, offering a small wave when Thomas throws one gangling arm out in a comical wave. “You wanted time with the lady, you’re getting time with the lady-”

“I think you know very well what I wanted was not to be babysitting our little brothers at her side, Alain,” Claire says sweetly, giving his shoulder a pat. “We’ll start with that pair of gloves I’ve been looking at and go from there depending on how much of a nuisance you end up becoming, hm?”

“I didn’t even _want_ to come,” Alain mutters at her, and she sweeps past him to meet the Troitan siblings. He doesn’t point out the unfairness of having a nice day alone with Cuthbert and Jamie stolen from him, either, though he certainly could. No, instead he comes awkwardly up beside his sister as she clasps her hands over Thomas’s and reminds him of their previous acquaintance, then turns to Siobhan with all sorts of baffling womanly noises.

Alain gives Thomas a rueful smile, shaking his hand in greeting. “You look well-rested. How was your weekend?”

“Was very restful, as it turns out! Only badgered a little bit by my sister-dear,” Thomas grins, glancing towards her.

“Alas, mine did not temper her badgering one bit,” Alain confides, and Thomas huffs a cheerful laugh. “I believe this is a universal trait of sisterhood, as she is not my only one.”

“No, nor is Vonnie mine, either! You speak quite correct, aye, you do!”

“Oh, you boys aren’t conspiring, are you?” Claire asks them, and Alain raises his eyebrow at her, which he knows she finds alarming and does for precisely that reason. “Oh, come, let us begin before the amahs flood the market with squalling toddlers and make a total mockery of the herbalist’s, then.”

So saying, she loops an arm ‘round Siobhan’s, and leads her briskly through the market with a swirl of her enormous, trailing skirts.

Thomas is… not an unenjoyable companion, at least. Alain has always found it awkward to make speech with someone whose mind he doesn’t know well enough to guess at their preferences, and he doesn’t dare attempt to reach into the Thegn’s mind again. Usually that would indeed make it difficult to gauge how to answer questions, or what the asker may truly want to know- but Thomas’s questions are actually quite easy to answer. He asks after Alain’s wellbeing and the wellbeing of Jamie and Cuthbert, and asks a few questions about Alain’s family- how many sisters he has, Melisende’s name and age, how she likes marriage and whether she has made Alain an uncle yet- and offers some information here and there, too, about his own older sisters. Siobhan, of course, Alain has met, but Thomas has two other living sisters- Brenna and Eilonwy- who sound quite interesting, as well.

“You might like to meet Brenna, you and Jamie, for I’ve heard tell that you both are ‘prenticed to magic, and Brenna has been a practiced witch for some while,” Thomas says cheerfully, pausing to peer down at a stand of fruits- plums, possibly- before continuing on. “Mad good at it, too, makes the big gatherings loads of fun.”

“Oh? It would- I would like to compare notes and methods with her, sometime, I should think,” Alain says truthfully, for he’s got no small interest in expanding his knowledge of the matter- unlike Jamie, who, in turn, despises their shared lessons with Marten. Well- with good reason.

“Known to be difficult to pry out of her home place, but perhaps I could take’ee on a visit, then,” Thomas suggests. “Some lovely rolling hills and cliffs and crumbling rocks and things near where she lives, too, it’s quite lovely to look at.”

“Perhaps once I’ve finished my current duties here, then, for Jamie and I could use a vacation,” Alain says, though- in all honesty, they have their own plans toward that end.

Thomas gives Alain a small, warm smile. “You and Jamie don’t do much without one another, do you?”

“We’re tet,” Alain says, and Thomas raises his eyebrows at him. “We four of us- Roland, Cuthbert, Jamie, and myself- are a ka-tet, and have grown up together besides. It is our destiny to be a singular group, a unit, even if we hadn’t been born to it, for we’ve shared in experiences as only ka-tet may. And between that group, why, Jamie and I spend- well, we spend a great deal of time together, as a matter of fact, for we are also closest to one another in thought, and are both apprenticed to the same arts now that we’ve graduated to novice gunslingers.”

“Gunslingers first and anything else second, eh?” Thomas asks musingly. “Seems a hard life.”

“All lives have their challenges, I would imagine,” Alain says drily. “Likely better to be a gunslinger than many other lives I could have been given, as well.”

“Do you say so? Seems to me it’d be a dreadful and drudging nightmare, aye,” Thomas says, his smile fading as he gestures at a merchant. “Look at that fellow. Selling little wooden toys and kitchen tools, that’s quite lovely, isn’t it? Making things instead of training day and night to be a killer, aye?”

“He doesn’t make them himself,” Alain says easily, and Thomas blinks at him. “Three or four families- he’s not sure of the count himself, you know- live in one of his boarding-houses, and he puts everyone who is not a working man to use carving the bits and putting them together. He has been fallen to drinking the past few years since his only son died, and he blames his wife but does not have proof that she had anything to do with the boy’s death-”

“Oh, gods, what an awful tale,” Thomas says, blanching.

“-but ever since, he’s been working his boarders ever harder, and minding the conditions of the boardinghouse less and less. They’ve resorted to eating stray dogs in one of them, which they’ve tried to hide out of shame but which he knows anyway,” Alain continues, and Thomas puts a shaking, gloved hand on his shoulder.

“That’s possibly the worst thing I’ve ever been told after admiring the work of a toymaker’s stall,” Thomas says grimly. “How does’ee know so well this sorry tale, then? Are you- are you kin, or- or close to one of the families, or-?”

“Oh- no, nothing like that,” Alain says quickly, remembering too late that the scope- or indeed, the existence- of his Touch is not public knowledge. “No, indeed, I- well, you hear things, of course, even in a city as large as this. We’ve all lived here all our lives, you know.”

“I can imagine what sort of speedy travel gossip makes here, aye, but-” Thomas shakes his head, gazing distantly around the market. “I suppose everyone here has some sort of terribly sad and desperate existence behind their jolly faces, aye?”

“No, not really,” Alain says kindly, giving him a pat. Despite how horrifyingly crawling the Thegn’s mind was, Alain knows that his sensitive heart would not do well to hear any more tales of woe, and what harm does it do to gently omit that most of the folk around them are suffering from illness or worry or strife? Lucky, indeed, that Alain has had training to numb himself to it- and, for that matter, that he’s passed some of that training on to his sister, whose similar gifts mean she, like Alain, constantly feels the ebb and flow of anxiety and irritation and greed when surrounded in the market like this.

“It was just an example of how- how lucky we gunslingers are, I suppose. Our needs and our families’ needs are attended to- housing, schooling, upkeep, feeding- by virtue of our birth and our fathers’ births. And of course, our titles are inherited as well- very few gunslingers are landed noblemen, but some, like Cuthbert, stand to inherit huge tracts of land one day, and will in turn be in charge of caring for the housing and upkeep and feeding not just of the people who live and work there but also of the people who live and work in the castle.”

“I suppose that explains why inheritance and marrying and whatnot are such matters of business, aye,” Thomas sighs. “I don’t- I don’t suppose that a gunslinger ever… ever weds another for love, or- or affection, aye? If they’re so- if it’s all to be so-”

“I will tell you a secret, Thomas,” Alain says, and Thomas perks up at that, looking very like a huge puppy- or, with his cloak, perhaps a wolf cub. “Many gunslingers are advised on their future marriages by their fathers, because any such union means the passing of land or a title or historic, family-owned guns that go back a thousand years to the times of Arthur Eld. Yes?”

“Y-yes?” Thomas repeats, and Alain slows down, peering at a flame-colored rack of vibrant day lilies as their sisters move a little farther away, pointing out and apparently purchasing a basket of lavender and thyme from one of the men who supplies the apothecaries.

“It is rare, for there to be a gunslinger without a father,” Alain says pointedly, and Thomas grimaces and shrugs at that. “But in recent generations, the practice of adoption has become more common. There are yearly… competitions, you see, and any boy whose worthiness is proven on the field may successfully petition to be admitted into the classes. Such a boy would become a gunslinger, and- if he were truly and singularly gifted- he might even be chosen to take on the family name of a childless noble, and become eligible for the inheritance of family guns. He might not be automatically set to inherit land or property, but the guns… the guns are what matters.”

“This seems like a worryin’ basis for a peacekeepin’ force,” Thomas says cheerfully, and Alain shrugs.

“It has worked for us,” he says simply. “But- Thomas, the important thing I’m trying to tell you is that for those gunslingers who have been adopted into the way of the gun only, and not born into it… there is no true decree binding them from birth to carry on that birthright. They might marry for love and affection or any other reason they wished.”

Alain pauses- this, he knows, is not his tale to tell, and therefore he keeps the details as brief as possible. “Why, you may take note that Jamie has only been a member of his father’s house these last seven years, and was emancipated of it for the last five. He is an unusual case, to be sure, but a good example of- of a gunslinger who is not bound to carry on a family name.”

Thomas’s eyes light up, and he grasps Alain’s hands in excitement. “Oh, aye, that’s quite a case, isn’t it? Aye, an instructive example of how your- how- it’s-” Seemingly overcome with excitement, Thomas turns to the flower-seller and gives him some money- a dollar, which is far too much for such a thing- and plucks out a single perfect day lily, leaning close and tucking it into the buttonhole of Alain’s coat pocket, over his heart.

Their eyes meet, and Thomas grins softly at him, and even without Touch Alain catches the shape of his thoughts, all honey-sunlight and warm tea and delight.

“A day lily, I think,” he says to Alain, gloved hands leaving a trail of warmth over his chest as he smooths out the front of Alain’s coat and shirt. “Suits you very well, and don’t say it doesn’t, aye, I’m quite good at it. Like the flash of sun against a coming cloud at sunset, isn’t it?”

Alain’s mouth is quite dry, for all at once he’s not certain what- or whom- Thomas is referring to.

“That’s- that’s lovely, Thomas,” he says, and Thomas’s smile is radiant.

“Come now, while they are distracted,” Thomas says, gesturing at their sisters. “I must ask you another secret, since… since the one you gave was so dear, aye, it was.”

“Well- Thomas, I’m sure I can’t be-” Alain begins, and Thomas takes his hand, giving it a hopeful little squeeze.

“Know what color is Jamie’s favorite of all?” he pleads, and Alain huffs a small laugh, thinking. “What?”

“I suppose I must confess he is not a terribly colorful person-” _not like you_ , he almost says, and bites down the urge to say something silly. “He is fond of greys and silvers, though. The colors of stone and metal, I suppose.”

“Oh, I see,” Thomas says, stroking his chin. “Would you say then… a dark grey or a lighter one, then?”

“How many greys are there?” Alain asks, and Thomas gives him a comically shocked expression, so he hastily adds, “That being said, a darker one, surely.”

“Thank you,” Thomas says, then, shyly, “Am looking for a- a small thing, perhaps, to give him. Just a wee- we’ve only just met and all, so- perhaps a bandanna?”

“I think he would find that very useful and… instructive,” Alain says, and Thomas lights up. “I might be able to point you in the direction of merchants who offer fair prices and some particularly lucky siguls and markings, since you are new here.”

“Oh, thank you!” Thomas practically skips as they approach the next stall. “I was dead lost on trying to- it has to be cotton, tis traditional, and I knew a shirt would be inappropriate for I know not his sizing and we know each other only a bit, aye, but- oh, this is very wonderful!”

The rest of the morning is spent looking for scarves and bandannas, then dithering over the prices- Alain succumbs to the urge to buy a length of blue ribbon, which he knows Claire will find quite pretty and will probably use to do something unreasonably complicated with her hair. It is only after they four meet for a very brief meal in a cafe- no more than a snack, but Thomas was impatient to go and did not eat at all- and separate again that Thomas and Alain have a chance to talk again.

“So how does inheritance work, in your… tribe?” Alain asks, and Thomas thinks on it for a moment.

“Well, there’s a bit of work goes into tanistry. The family- not just the parents and children, but cousins, uncles, aunties, granddads if you’ve got any- comes together to decide on it, and there’s a vote. O’course, any who’d rather not bear that burden can withdraws out, aye, like Brenna and Celyn and Ronan did. Finn too, and Dermott, for Finn is very taken with his duties as our doctor and Dermott has the augury in him, he does. None’d force a child to take up the responsibilities of inheriting anythin’.”

“Wait, you vote on it? But- so your brother who’s to inherit, he wasn’t born first or chosen by your father but actually selected by… by everyone?” Alain demands, and Thomas gives him a puzzled frown.

“Haven’t got a father, though, have I?” he asks, and Alain blinks.

“Well- your father might not be living, but you had a father at one point-” he says, and Thomas’s frown deepens.

“No, I hadn’t,” he says. “Hadn’t ever, no. Have got my mother, and Mum married her and adopted me and made us Grissoms. My Ma has a father, though, that’s my Granddad.”

“Oh, does- does that mean she does not know your father’s name?” Alain catches himself asking, before clapping a hand over his mouth. “Oh, gods, I cry your pardon, Thomas, that sounded far ruder than I intended at all-”

“No offense has been taken, Alain, but only- but I haven’t got a father,” Thomas repeats uncertainly. “Why should I? I had none.”

“I- I apologize if my question is distressing to you, Thomas, it was overly familiar,” Alain says, wishing wretchedly that he’d known not to ask and wishing even more wretchedly that he could reliably Read and Feel and Hear Thomas’s mind the way he does everyone else’s, for then he’d have known that the subject he was nearing was a complicated one. “Why, it’s no mark against you nor your mother to not know-”

“It’s not that we don’t know,” Thomas says, eyes bright with some unguarded emotion, something that Feels… small. “Nothing to know, no one to know. Never such a being as that, aye, no fear at all, none.”

“Oi,” Siobhan calls over to them from two stalls over, startling a housemaid at her shopping. “What’s all this yon two argue over?”

“It- it’s no argument, Vonnie,” Thomas calls over to her, and she raises both eyebrows at him. “Am- am only- we-”

He gives Alain a pleading look, and Alain raises his voice to call uncomfortably over to her.

“We’re both just- very excited about these-” Alain looks at the stand, holding up a ceramic drinking-cup. “These cups, isn’t that right, Thomas?”

“Oh, aye, quite the craftsmanship, see here the markings of soda firing-” Thomas starts, and when his sister turns with a slight huff he lowers his voice again. “Thankee, Alain, she- she means well but only has been very worried of me, this past week.”

“Worried? Whyfor?” Alain asks, and Thomas shrugs as he puts the cup down.

“I am plagued with singularly bad dreams, it seems,” he mutters. “This place quite reeks of bad dreams, somehow, and I am having… not as restful a time as I may have indicated, earlier.”

“Oh, that’s- I’m sorry to hear that. You don’t think it’s something to see the Doctor for, though, do-” Alain begins hesitantly, and Thomas startles violently.

“No. No, _no Doctor_ , no,” he says quickly, before running a hand over his face. “No. Is only dreams. Is only bad dreams. My Vonnie-oh a worryin’ one, she is. Am often taken by ill sleep, so she thinks she must be on vigilance, but truthfully am only just… well, am not used to this place, perhaps, and… sometimes strangeness is upsetting.”

“Well- perhaps time will make this place less strange, then?” Alain asks softly, and Thomas nods a little. “I’m sorry to have brought up… all that, though.”

“Is no injury to me, Alain, and you are very kind and a very good companion, besides,” Thomas says, and though his cheer is largely forced Alain Feels that he does _mean_ what he says, at least about liking Alain and forgiving his lapse. It’s… strange, though, that he has such a deep dislike of doctors-

-no, come to think of it, for he has a brother who is a doctor, and thinks only fondly of him. It's not unusual for people of the castle to be leery of their court doctor, of course- and those who know a little of why Jamie was removed from the Doctor's custody are more than leery of him- but it's… odd for a stranger to already fear him so.

"Perhaps an herbal tea will help with your sleep," Alain suggests, and Thomas looks suitably encouraged.

"Aye, perhaps! Should be a worthy experiment at any rate, so it should." He pauses, adding, “I would also like to- to see some fruits, aye. Am living off bread and jam and Vonnie is _quite_ near summoning our Ma to make me eat, but only-” His face is the very picture of comically exaggerated misery as he sighs. “Say sorry, I’m not fond of many of the foodstuffs that are made here, and perhaps she will be less worrisome if I can be seen to eat something fresh. I know not why she is fretting so.”

“It’s a sisterly thing, no doubt,” Alain suggests. “Claire is much the same whenever I am busy working, for she has it in her head that _coffee_ is _bad_ for me.”

“I have not tried coffee yet,” Thomas announces, and Alain reaches up to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Please. Allow me to make you a cup or two,” he says solemnly, and Thomas giggles, turning a bit pink. It’s entirely too sweet, and Alain grins at him. “Most men cannot resist it after trying it once.”

“I look forward to the experience, then,” Thomas says warmly. “In the… in the interest of cultural exchanges, aye.”

“Oh, yes, the cultural exchange,” Alain agrees, and they both laugh, soft and unselfconscious. It’s… it’s nice.

“You boys done arguing about cups, then?” Claire asks innocently, bundling Siobhan- loaded, Alain can see, with a full wicker basket and looking slightly perplexed as to how she came to be holding it- over to them.

“Oh, we’re- yes,” Thomas says brightly, before opening his mouth. “Say, Alain, I meant to ask earlier, but what’s _your_ most favored color, then?”

“I don’t know that I have one, it’s just- colors simply are, no need to play favorites,” Alain says easily, and Thomas goggles at him until Claire puts one delicate hand on his forearm.

“My brother is very silly,” she says primly, and before Alain can protest she adds, “His three favorite colors, Tommy, are the deep rich brown of roasted and ground coffee beans, the deepness of goodly-made black ink, and the exact shade of a straight rye whiskey aged five years or more with a shaft of late sunlight through’t.”

“Why! I argue not that these are all extremely attractive colors to me, Clairy, but how indeed do you know what such a thing as _that_ is?” Alain asks, deeply affronted at the idea of his sister entering the kind of drinking establishment that would dare to serve whiskey to a noblewoman of her stature. Claire gives him a sweet smile, which does nothing to answer his question.

Thomas goes an alarming shade of red, one gloved hand pressed to his mouth as he blinks at the two of them.

“Brother, have you come over ill, then?” Siobhan demands, and Thomas shakes his head at her. “Well, ye’ve gone all reddish. Is it the heat?”

“No, am quite alright, just- just surprised at the conversation,” Thomas says tightly, which puzzles Alain a bit. “Say, I would… I would like to go back to the chancery and write a letter home, so I would.”

“Oh, you poor dear, it _is_ the heat, isn’t it?” Claire asks sympathetically, and after a panicked moment he jerks his head in a nod. “Why, we’ll take you two straight home so you might relax and cool down, won’t we, Alain?”

“Sure,” Alain says, blinking. He thinks- well, he doesn’t truly think that Thomas has a nefarious bone in his body, no, but he has been acting passing strange all day, and if there’s anything to be concerned over, well… Cuthbert will want to know.

Alain gently takes his arm to go up a stone step from the marketplace onto the main thoroughfare- and almost stops short. Thomas is not hurt again, or red from the heat or any such thing- he is operating under a deeply horrified misconception of what whiskey is, and is almost too embarrassed to ask his older sister what the word means when they’re in private for fear that it’s even worse than his imaginings.

Alain bites his lower lip, and over the Thegn’s shoulder, Claire’s merry eyes meet his. Even without Sending it through the Touch, Alain can feel her laughing at him for having been concerned enough to peek.

She does Send a single thought- _silly boys, the both of you_ \- before turning her attention back to Siobhan, insisting that they meet again, perhaps without their baby-brother chaperones next time.

Alain supposes he can’t find fault with her for that one. Perhaps Bert, at least, will get a good laugh out of it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 tags/warnings: a lot of vague references to past sexual trauma, surprise mordred cameo, pet rats, more of a breakdown of gunslinger classifications and roles, Bad Things Happening To Poor Thomas And Jamie

It is a very nice morning- the weather is crisp and the sun mild, and it looks to promise a sweet and balmy winter- and it’s made all the nicer because Alain has come to Cuthbert’s apartment to break their fast and go over some notes that were sent from the council regarding the Troitan treaty. Alain catches Cuthbert’s eye over a slab of bacon, and the soothing, sunny warmth that curls through Bert over the small smile on his face might even be Alain’s doing, Sending happiness Bert’s way-

“No, it isn’t,” Alain says, taking a bite out of his bacon with a cheeky grin. “You’re just pleased to see me, for some reason-”

“I’m always pleased to see you,” Bert says, and Alain gives him another small, soft smile.

“And I you, Bert. Are you quite finished with the butter, or might someone else at the table use it?” he asks sweetly, and Bert huffs at him and pushes the butter dish into Alain’s reach. He turns back to the notes once Alain is spreading butter on a bit of bread- he hasn’t had much contact with the Thegn or his party in the days since Alain and Claire took the Grissoms to the market, though there has been a little correspondence here and there indicating that everything is well with the embassy. 

 There is a swift rap on the chamber door, and Cuthbert almost stands to answer it himself before a serving-girl answers it- though he’s not sure if she’s young enough to be considered a girl, as she towers over both him and Alain, and looks near as broad-shouldered as Alain is. Her face is very freckled and her hair is entirely covered in her soft cap, lending her a somewhat prim air of mystery. 

 “Why, you’re not the usual girl at all,” Cuthbert says, and when she turns to hand him a small stack of letters he gives a small start, recognizing her immediately. “Why, it’s dear Susan Bailey! You were serving at the luncheon the other day, at the chancery, weren’t you? I’d thought you were married off to some lucky lad or something, I haven’t seen you around the castle at all since we returned from Mejis!”

 “Certainly not, Sai Allgood. Mistress had me take over your quarters for the week, since she who normally tends to these apartments has indeed been married and will move to- I believe- Hendersontown. I am merely a temporary replacement while a new girl is trained up,” she says, smiling down at him. “And married, no, sai. The nobility may marry at fifteen, but we commonfolk wait til the age of majority, and I’m but seventeen.” 

 “Seventeen, eh? I do have it in me to like an _older_ woman,” Cuthbert says, grinning at her, and she gives him a pitying smile.

 “Alas, that I don’t have it in me to like a man, even one so silver-tongued as thee,” she says sweetly, and Alain almost chokes on his coffee, spluttering and coughing. She reaches over, giving him a thump on the back. “Can’ee breathe at all, then?”

 “I can! I can,” he wheezes. “You don’t have to whack my back so, Miss Susan.” 

 “Oh, alright, then,” she says agreeably. “Shall I clear the table for you two, then, or are you still eating?”

 “Oh, don’t rush us, no. We’ll clear the table ourselves,” Cuthbert says, waving her off as he opens a curiously-folded parchment. “Say! Look here, Alain, that old monster wrote me.”

 “Which old monster? Be specific,” Alain says, and Bert sighs.

 “Master Cort. Says here he is requesting that we arrange a meeting,” he says, and purses his mouth a little, frowning thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, he’d like us- all of us recent graduates- to bring the- the ambassador to the training field for a demonstration.” 

 “He’s volunteering to put on a show for the Thegn?” Alain asks, sounding positively gobsmacked. “That’s just-”

 “Well- he wrote _the ambassador_ , but as we’re not entertaining any other embassies but the Thegn’s…” Cuthbert trails off, frowning. “Seems… odd, though, don’t you think?”

 “Everything about this is very odd, Bert,” Alain agrees, before taking another sip of his coffee. “Does he want anything else, there?” 

 “Just that he wants everyone at the field for a demonstration,” Bert says, handing over the cryptically short message for Alain to examine before wrinkling his nose at the next piece of correspondence in his hand. “Oh, ugh. That slinking stinker’s written me, too.”

 “Which one? Be specific,” Alain says mildly, and Bert tosses a half-eaten drop biscuit at him. Alain _completely unfairly_ snatches it in midair and butters it in one swift motion, going back to Cort’s letter with his snack in hand.

 “Marten, that sliming, odiferous collection of rats on two legs,” Bert mutters, using a spare butterknife to open the letter. Nothing immediately dangerous or disgusting bursts out, which is not, unfortunately, a guarantee of the letter’s safety. Still, Bert squints down at the parchment, taking in the wizard’s message with a growing feeling of sour unhappiness that only grows when he sees Marten’s signature, with its childish drawing of a smiling face under his initials. 

 “One would think a wizard would have proper handwriting,” Bert mutters ominously.

“Or, being a wizard, he expects people to pay him mind regardless of how pretty his handwriting is,” Alain suggests. “What’s he want?”

 “He’s… _also_ requesting a meeting and a demonstration for the Thegn,” he says, tapping his foot under the table. “What in the hells is going on here?”

 “Might be a very simple explanation,” Alain offers. “We’re hosting a foreign power, couldn’t hurt to let the foreign power know about our, uh. Home power?”

 “What, a sort of, hey, we’d like to impress you, or at least impress upon you how foolish it is to think about crossing us?” Bert asks, nodding a little. “I suppose that makes sense. I shan’t want to spend any amount of time with or around Marten, though- say, I’ll arrange both demonstrations to occur at the same time and place, then! That way Cort will be nearby to help if Marten tries anything.”

 “Cort?” Alain asks, putting his mug down. “Bert, you _despise_ Cort.”

 “True and true,” Bert agrees. “But that doesn’t mean that I lack _respect_ for him. And Cort would not let that man perform any wickedness or mischief in his view.” 

 There is a moment of quiet, and then Alain Reaches for him through the Touch-

 -a warm hand enveloping his own, the soft summer smell of being high in the branches of a green tree with the first hints of growing fruit, the memory of waking in the early Mejisian sunlight and smiling at Jamie and Roland and Cuthbert in their peaceful sleep, moments before they feel him wake and start rising for the day themselves-

 -Cuthbert breathes out, and Alain smiles.

 “Thank you,” he says gently. “For making sure that he doesn’t… do what he does.”

 “I meant it,” Cuthbert says, looking intently at Alain’s bright and comely face. “I meant it when I said I’d never allow that man to hurt either of you ever again.”

 “You surely did,” Alain agrees. Bert shuffles through his mail and sighs dramatically, shoving the last piece of parchment- the official announcement of the beginning of society season- into the pouch at his waist. “Oh, what now?”

 “It’s Ball Season soon,” Bert mumbles. “You know we’re expected to bring courtly ladies to these things, don’t you?”

 “Well, _you’re_ out of luck, but I’ll just accompany Claire like I always do,” Alain reasons, and Bert makes a face at him. 

 “You can’t take your sister, Al. It was different when you were just the little brother chaperoning an unmarried maiden of your house, now you’re a man and you must find a lady to put up with you who _doesn’t_ already live in your house,” he says, and Alain shrugs at him. “And don’t tell me you just won’t go, you know that you must.”

 “Well, you can’t take Claire either, then, it’s only fair,” Alain says mildly, and Cuthbert puts a hand to his breast, outraged. 

 “That you think I’d court your _sister_ in _public_ wounds me to my _core_ , sir,” he protests, and Alain raises both eyebrows at him. 

 “Alright, then who will you be asking?” 

 “A lady of the court,” Cuthbert says, after a beat. 

 “Which one? What’s her name,” Alain presses, his eyes gleaming with a teasing light. 

 “I think as a marquess I ought to be able to ensure that my underlings make a good show of it, who are _you_ going to be asking?” Bert counters. 

 “Who cares? I’m not the one with a duchy on the line, who are _you_ going to be asking?” Alain replies, fluttering his lashes at him. Cuthbert huffs, standing from the table to begin clearing it off. 

 “I should probably endeavor to see that the ladies of the Troitan embassy are accompanied to the balls before attending to my own affairs,” he mutters, stacking a couple of empty plates. “We could always ask some of them to be our partners for the social season, then when they leave for home we won’t be held to marry any of them.”

 “That’s a good idea,” Alain agrees, then frowns slightly. “Although I’m sure there’s been some talk of at least one marriage between our peoples-”

 “Well, that’s going to be up to their parents, not me,” Bert says, cheering up a little. “And mine’d never marry me off to some foreign land, they’d miss me too much. You’d better make sure you don’t charm your Troitan lady too much, though, your parents would do it in a heartbeat.”

 “Do you say so?” Alain asks, smirking faintly. “I could ask the Thegn’s sister, though. She’d jump at any excuse to spend time at our house with Claire, and she’d never try to marry _me_.” 

 “That’s a good idea,” Bert says, brightening up. “Why, then you’d have even more opportunity to delve into her thoughts and see what the Thegn’s up to.” 

 “Well- yes, that’s true, but-” Alain starts, then stops, bemused. “Do you truly think that the Thegn is up to anything?”

 “Don’t you?” Bert asks, and Alain puts his hand over his mouth before sighing. 

 “He’s trying to formally court Jamie, and he’s trying to keep his sister from finding out that he’s sleeping and eating poorly since they got to Gilead,” he says finally. “And that’s just what’s on the surface of his mind. Secrets and strivings aplenty, and more running underneath that I can only just make out the shape of, but nothing that I’d call harmful or dangerous to anyone, no.”

 “What about what you felt in him that first day?” Cuthbert asks, and Alain hesitates.

 “Could be that I was… mistaken,” he says lamely, and Cuthbert frowns. 

 “You’re often many things, Al-”

 “Thankee, Bert,” Alain says drily. 

 “-but mistaken about what you Feel? No.” Cuthbert drums his fingers against his stack of plates, before putting them carefully in the bin to be taken away. “It’s not just that, though, and it’s not that he embarrassed me before the official feast, and it’s not even that he’s just so infuriatingly coy and pretends not to be aware of how stupidly attractive he is even though I _know_ he’s laughing at us and our ways every time he swans around half-naked in that shocking little skirt of his-”

 “Kilt, and- Bert, _honestly_ ,” Alain huffs, and Bert shakes his head at him. 

 “It’s that Steven Deschain wouldn’t have put him in my path unless it was to vex me. It’s that whatever else he is, the Thegn is just one more obstacle to what I’ve been working towards ever since last summer, and knowing the way Deschain works- and knowing the way the putrid mind of his closest advisor works- the Thegn’s presence is designed specifically to spell disaster for our attempt to get you and Jamie out of this castle and somewhere safe out in the country. I know it.” 

 “Perhaps,” Alain acknowledges, clearing the cups and cutlery from the table and leading Bert over to the sitting room. “Perhaps not. They have their own reasons for doing what they do- and yes, it does certainly feel like you were given the task of wrangling the Thegn just to embarrass you in the Court- but I don’t think either of them would have selected such a tenderhearted man to be the tool of your unmaking. They might have expected Jarl Grissom to send, you know…” He waves a hand. “The stereotypical Troitan savage, not a sensitive chatterbox who draws flowers in his personal diary. Really, Thomas is probably doing more to muck up their plans than you ever could hope.”

 “Thank you,” Bert says, sighing as Alain sits with him on the settee. He turns to look at Alain and Al starts a little, before grinning widely at him. “What’s that, then?”

 “Your eyes,” he says slowly. “Are the color of roasted, ground coffee beans.” 

 “Oh, are they, then? One of my favorite features, I think,” Bert says, preening a little. “Too bad there’s no way to fit “ground beans” into one of the great romantic sonnets, isn’t it?”

 Alain’s hand moves slowly, his fingers raking through Bert’s long hair, and there is a bright and welcome heat in Alain’s eyes when their gazes meet. 

 “Your hair is quite like the deep black of good ink,” he suggests, and Bert shivers, moving closer to him on the embroidered cushion of the seat. 

 “It is, isn’t it?” he agrees. “One of my favorite features, I do believe.”

 "All your features are your favorite features,” Alain teases, his hand drawing lower to cup the side of Bert’s face. 

 “Yours, too, though,” Bert says smugly, and Alain lets out a soft, breathy laugh. 

 “Say true, there’s nothing on you I don’t love to see,” he admits, and some delightful tension in Bert’s gut winds even tighter as his hand strokes down the side of his neck, one broad thumb resting at the corner of his jaw. 

 “Ah,” Alain says, his eyes drinking in the line of Bert’s throat. “Five year whiskey.”

 Cuthbert moves closer still, burying his long hands in the mass of sunny curls topping Alain’s head, and Alain makes a soft, happy sound before catching himself and flushing pink.

 “You asked me before to talk,” Bert says softly, and Alain watches his face carefully, going still. “About- about what we have failed to discuss.”

 “You asked me to wait until you felt free to speak at length,” Alain says quietly. 

 “I no longer wish to wait and neither do I wish to speak,” Cuthbert tells him, his hands coming to rest on Alain’s shoulders. “I wish instead to _show_ you. I did not have to speak when I was Arthur Heath.” 

 “And you are not Arthur Heath in Gilead,” Alain murmurs. “In Mejis we could do-”

 “What we wanted to do,” Cuthbert finishes. “What I want, now, to do.” Alain meets his gaze again. “Do you…?”

 “I do,” Alain says. “I want to very much.” 

 Cuthbert breathes out a sigh of relief, grinning nervously. “Good. Good! Then-”

 He leans forward and presses his mouth to Alain’s, the way they did before. There is no smell of hot, sunbaked hay or fresh-cut grass or distant horse, here: Bert can smell and taste Alain’s coffee most of all, and the soap Alain uses, and well-oiled wooden furniture. It is a good smell- a home-smell, moreso than Bert’s chambers in his parents’ home. Alain chuckles into his mouth, his hands running over the small of Bert’s back. 

 “It’s the same soap Roland and Jamie use,” he murmurs. “That’s all.” 

 “Ah, but you’re the one I’ve smelt it on,” Cuthbert replies, and Alain kisses him. It’s just as sweet as he remembers, just as thrilling- they don’t stand the risk of being caught here, no, but it makes his heart race all the same, and his hands and mouth are still greedy for the feel of Alain, as if hoarding up every little touch for some long winter. He climbs into Alain’s lap, one long leg around his waist, the other hooked up against the arm of the settee, and Alain breaks the kiss to press his face into Bert’s neck. 

 His hands are warm and heavy on Bert’s hip and side, and his breath tickles against Bert’s collar, and when Bert shifts his position in Al’s lap he gives a small, sharp gasp, freezing in place. 

 “No?” Cuthbert asks, and Alain shakes his head. “Too much?” 

 “Too close, to- to what he-” 

 Cuthbert runs a hand through Alain’s hair, kissing his shoulder. “Should I go? I don’t wish to be any distress to you, not at a time like-”

 “Don’t go,” Alain says, and after a moment he lifts Cuthbert by the hips- it’s easy to forget how strong he is, but it’s always a delight to be so reminded- and puts him down on the settee, his face crimson. “Sorry.” 

 “Don’t be sorry, Al,” Cuthbert says, taking his hand. “I enjoy being with you very much, no matter what we do.” Cuthbert laces his fingers with his, his smile widening. “And we’ll have plenty of time to… to discover what works, when we’ve gone to the country.” 

 “That’s true, isn’t it?” Alain agrees distantly, and Bert tucks himself against Alain’s side, laying his head on his shoulder. “We… ought to think about preparing the demonstration, oughtn’t we?”

 “We ought to, and yet I do not wish to,” Bert says, and Alain puts his arm around him. “A compromise, then. We will do it later, and host the demonstration tomorrow. For now, I would like to enjoy not working with you just a bit more.” 

 “I _am_ sorry,” Alain says, after a moment. 

 “There is no need to be,” Bert tells him, and that, at least, settles the matter. 

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

 In truth it has been just a little more than a week- a week and a half, perhaps, based on when Cuthbert met him- since the Troitans came. It feels like longer- much longer, because after what everyone says was a truly disastrous first council meeting Thomas has made a point of seeing or meeting or visiting Jamie every day, sometimes more than once. At first it could have been by chance- the Thegn wandering into view trailing after some slow-moving rat or peculiarly hopping bird before noticing Jamie with a bright smile on his face- but after Thomas gives him a handsome gray neckerchief he asks him if they might arrange to meet, instead of Thomas pleading for a local to lead the way. 

 It’s… nice. Jamie and Alain still have rooms within Marten’s apartments to go back to on the weekends, since neither of them are finished with their apprenticeships to him, but more and more often Jamie has somewhere to be that isn’t merely a hiding-place from the wizard or from the people who live in the castle. And the more Thomas teaches him of the handspeech his Uncles and family use, the easier it is for them to share with one another, Thomas giving him words as Jamie uses them to answers his questions. 

 Alain _did_ tell Jamie, after Thomas bought the neckerchief in the market, that it’s something the Thegn might give him to begin formally courting. Jamie had even been ready to firmly refuse, only-

 -only when Thomas had shyly presented it to him, he’d explained in halting tones that even though it’s part of a traditional courtship to give themed gifts in order, if Jamie would prefer it could just be a gift between new friends, perhaps. Jamie had stared into his face at that, perhaps for too long, because Thomas had looked down and shuffled his feet and then looked back up, smiling faintly and hopefully and without any of the cool, crawling calculation he’s used to seeing from the men of Gilead. 

 “Thank you,” Jamie had signed at him, taking the neckerchief. “Yes.” 

 He hadn’t been sure if he could explain, either in his words or in the words Thomas had lent him, what he meant by that, but it turns out that Thomas could understand him very well. 

 Thomas has presented him with two more gifts after that- a slim, braided leather belt in the Troitan style and just this morning, a small jar of some fruit jam brought along from Thomas’s home. Jamie could scarcely accept such a gift without immediately sharing it with him for breakfast, and they’d made a picnic of it in a grassy place that Jamie thinks of as almost wholly his own. 

 He doesn’t like to suffer the touch of others if he can at all help it, but the spicy-sweet taste of the jam lingers on his tongue, and he finds himself wondering, in the cool and shady clearing, if Thomas’s mouth might also taste of it just now. It’s a worrisome thought- vaguely distressing, in a way that will become sharp if he thinks at all on it- but when he turns to look at Thomas, the Thegn is sitting in a loose curl with his back against one of the large, near-flat stones, and in his outstretched hand is perched a smooth, brown rat. 

 Thomas catches Jamie’s eye and smiles at him. “Oi, Jamie. Meet Dennis. Dennis, this is Jamie.” 

 The rat regards Jamie curiously, making a few tiny noises and sniffing at the Thegn’s hand as Jamie cautiously moves a little closer. 

 “It is easy to make friends with rats,” Thomas confides in him. “Say hello, Dennis.” 

 Dennis turns around in a circle and squeaks at Thomas, who blushes. 

 “Did he say hello,” Jamie says quietly, amusement beating out his sense of wariness at seeing a man holding vermin. 

 “He did not,” Thomas admits. “He is- cheeky, aye, he is. Followed me here because he knows I’m a softy who’ll feed him. I should like to take him home with me, as well as some of the other friends I have made here, for rats of Gilead are quite a bit more talkative than the rats I’ve known in other places, and seem to know more of the ways of men and of the world than other city rats. Perhaps some of the old magic has stayed in their blood, and made them a different sort of rat entirely- why, I should very much like to know if it’s that or just being so domesticated and lazy that has given them this cleverness, so I would!” 

 “Dennis,” Jamie confirms, and Thomas nods. 

 “He won’t bite you, for I’ve spoken quite sternly to him,” Thomas says, which- well, seems a bit of a stretch. Jamie tentatively offers his open hand, and Dennis takes a few delicate steps into his palm, sniffing urgently at the air and at Jamie’s hand and wrist. 

 “You can speak to them,” Jamie says quietly, and Thomas nods. “Just rats?”

 “I suppose with work I could speak to anything that doesn’t consider itself a man,” Thomas reflects, watching Jamie with such a look of softness that Jamie feels his face warm considerably. “Small things are… nicest to speak with. Great big things feel like… like I might go away, and be a wolf, or a mountain-cat. Small things do not wish to take hold and become me. Rats are very nice, as are kitty-cats, birds… most small crawling things as well, aye. They think simple things and generally get along well enough.”

 “How small?” Jamie asks, curious, and Thomas considers it for a moment, before Dennis gives a demanding squeak and Thomas reaches back over to let him crawl onto his larger hand. “Spiders? Ants?”

 “I can, aye, but… even smaller things, all around and all over and even inside of us. Fleas, and things that live inside of fleas,” he says dreamily. “Every man is not just a man, you know. Tiny living things are busy- making his guts work if they belong there, making him sick if they don’t.” 

 Thomas glances over at Jamie, grinning. “Traditionally those that are taken for the Speaking learn to speak with- and one day, learn to be- some great big war beast. A bear, or even a horse or wolf. Am not much for war or hunting, no, I am not, but good at noticing the tiny little voices of those smaller and smallest things, aye. I do not wish to be a boastful person, but since the learning of my Speaking none of my tribe has fallen ill to any sort of sickness, and crops do not take the blight. If a sickness comes to a person, why, I just ask it to leave.” 

 “And it… goes?” Jamie asks, and Thomas nods at him. “Powerful.”

 “Aye, do you say so? I suppose so,” he muses, as Dennis crawls up his arm and nestles into a warm spot at the crook of his neck. “Has made my brother Finn’s work much easier, aye. Has made negotiations in the farms and freeholds easier too, since I could rid them of whatever was hurting their crops or harassing their animals. Aye, excepting wasps, of course, those are too hard, they are angry little things, and their stings are something fearful.” 

 “You like… small things,” Jamie says, after a moment, and Thomas glances at him and blushes scarlet. After a moment, Jamie signs at him, “I am a small thing.”

 “Well, I suppose you are, but- but that’s not why I like you, though, that’s just it, I like _everything_ about you,” Thomas blurts, before covering his mouth with his hand. Dennis peeps at him, before going and hiding in the long tumble of his brown hair. “Oh, I know that’s very forward, aye, it is-”

 “It’s okay,” Jamie tells him, and Thomas lowers his hand a little. Jamie rocks a little bit, before licking his lower lip- he doesn’t know how to say it, in handspeech, so he must force his unwilling and unhappy mouth to utter the words themselves. “I like. You. As well.”

 He supposes Thomas ought to know this already- he has already agreed to court Thomas, after all- but the Thegn’s entire face and body light up at once, and he beams happily at Jamie, and Jamie is glad to have said so. He looks around them- the green grass, the green trees, the smell of green growing things still here despite the nearing winter- and takes a small chance, moving closer to sit near the Thegn so that there is only about a foot of space between them. If more red is added to Thomas’s blush, Jamie can’t see it from here. 

 “Suppose you’ll get to show me much more interesting magic this afternoon, aye,” Thomas offers, looking at his knobby knees. 

 “Fire. Light.” Jamie hesitates but only a little bit, putting his hand out to rest over Thomas’s in the grass. “Flashy.” 

 “Flashy?” Thomas asks, grinning down at their hands before looking back at Jamie’s face. “Flashy is exciting, aye, isn’t it?”

 “Quiet is better,” Jamie murmurs, and Thomas makes a small noise of agreement at that. 

 “I like both,” he declares. “Half of my kin are very quiet and half are very noisy, you know. It’s that way with my parents, too, half my Mum’s kin and half my Ma’s kin are quiet as anything, and half again for both are loud.” 

 Jamie gives his hand a small squeeze, and after a moment Thomas turns his hand in his grip, squeezing lightly back. 

 He’d been worried, after agreeing to accept Thomas’s courtship, that things might be- like they were before, with others. He is fiercely glad that he had worried over nothing. He turns, and with one finger- barely enough to feel it himself- he traces a ribbon of thorns up and around Thomas’s forearm. 

 “Oh, aye,” Thomas says dreamily. “Tis a rambling rose. Have you got those here?”

 Jamie shakes his head, and Thomas shrugs off his cloak- dislodging Dennis with another squeak before the rat scurries around into Thomas’s lap- to show Jamie the tattoos climbing up his arm, sprouting leaves and rosebuds before blossoming into huge blooms at his shoulders. 

 “They’re dead easy to grow up against a trellis or hedge, and- well- they have some wicked prickly thorns, they do, for they climb so well. Known to be a protector of sorts, both in gardens and in tattoos, but-”

 “Beautiful,” Jamie says quietly, and Thomas meets his eyes with a small smile.

 “Thank you. Did them meself, you know.” He clears his throat. “And inked into the clan designs, you know, they… well, I suppose they’re here to protect against all manner of wickedness, too.” He looks at their joined hands, before saying in an uncharacteristically shy and careful voice, “Was suggested to me, for- for have had terrible dreams most of my childhood, aye. Dreams of being… of being small, in a loveless place, where-” 

 He breaks off, clearing his throat. “Such things that make for nightmares, aye, can sometimes be a sign of- of spirits or wicked imps or such things. So they say, and so it was suggested that I turn my thoughts to them when selecting my markings after been marked up for Clan Grissom. I do find roses ever so lovely, too, for they- they put me in mind of my Ma, she has roses on her hands, you know.”

 Jamie looks at him, and Thomas gives him a curious look in response. Jamie raises his hand slowly, running his thumb around the orbit of his shoulder where the full blooms begin to go across the back of it. “Back?”

 “Aye, they cross over like an arch on my back, they do,” Thomas says softly. “Had help wit’em, for though I’m dead keen with both hands at making drawings and tattooing I’ve not yet got the skill of doin’ so where I can’t reach easy. S’alright, for I trust very much in the old clan tattooist, so I do.”

 Jamie nods, and Thomas falls silent, his free hand patting absently at Dennis before the rat grows tired of perching on his thigh and climbs up to sit on his shoulder.

 “Will… will be meeting your teachers today, I have been told,” Thomas says in a quiet voice, after some time in the shared silence. “Am… am nervous, aye, more nervous than to have met the Big Dinh. Vonnie says I oughtn’t be nervous, but… but feels heavy over me, that I’ll meet them. Not very sure why I fret so, at that.” 

 “Mm.” Jamie can’t say why Thomas would be worried- he’s not the one who’ll be demonstrating his skills for an audience, after all- but every mention of Jamie’s schooling and apprenticeship has put him on edge this last week, and he has more than once taken a wider path through the grounds in order to avoid catching sight of Cort’s practice field again. 

 Jamie looks up, casting around to see if he might spot anything in the clearing that could cheer Thomas up a bit, before his gaze falls upon a twist of faint color through the trees- just the tiniest bit of red, perhaps from the fruit of one of the wild apple or bloodfruit trees that grow near the castle. That Thomas sees him looking intently and follows his line of sight is no mystery at all, for Thomas often just turns to gaze quietly at him when they’re together- 

 -but Thomas perks visibly, and Jamie knows that he’s seen it, despite it being so tiny and so far. 

 “Oh, d’you see that over there?” Thomas asks excitedly, and Jamie stands, offering a hand since Thomas left his staff at home. 

 “Ripe fruit,” Jamie tells him, and Thomas does, indeed, cheer up immensely. 

 “Fruit’s the next one, you know! That’s why today’s was jam, see, since it’s _formerly_ fruit,” he babbles excitedly, his joints clicking audibly as he unfolds himself into a standing position. “Is it a kind you like, do you suppose?”

 “Mm,” Jamie grunts, then signs, “Yes, good fruit.” 

 “Oh, say, I’d like to see about picking some, then, and we can eat it, and it will be very lovely, aye,” Thomas says, and if he seems like he is perhaps forcing a little bit of the cheer into his voice, well- Jamie knows what it is like, to want to pretend not to have been bothered by something. 

 The fruits turn out to be round red bloodfruits, full of juicy bright arils, and the eating of them is an extremely pleasant way to pass another hour or two before they go to the official demonstration. 

 Once they get near the practice fields Thomas stops and pulls a dreadful face.

 "Should I go and get my sister to come sit by me?" he asks, shifting his weight. "Only… I suppose she'll be wanting to sit and watch with her new lady friends, wouldn't she?"

 "Sit with us," Jamie says, inclining his head. "Can go straight to dinner after." Thomas gives him another smile, before ambling alongside Jamie to the fields where the rest of his ka-tet are already waiting. Cort comes out first, accompanied- perhaps not so surprisingly- by old Master Vannay, and when Marten comes out onto the field Jamie sees him shoot an unreadable look towards their old teacher’s way before standing off a little to one side. 

 At his side, Bert breathes just the tiniest sigh of relief, and on his other side, Thomas tenses, his hands gathering tight fistfuls of the hem of his kilt. 

 “Show us your brace of mages, Broadcloak, and have done with it so we can show the ambassador the meat of the presentation,” Cort calls out, and Marten refuses to respond to him, merely gesturing curtly at Jamie and Alain to come forward. 

 Thomas makes a small sound as Jamie stands, and Jamie puts his hand on his shoulder for just the briefest of touches before walking over with Alain onto the field. In truth, he despises being on display- whether it’s in a group like this with an audience, or whether it’s just him and Alain alone with Marten- but he allows himself to imagine, just briefly, that it is just Thomas and Jamie and Jamie’s ka-tet, that he just wants to make Thomas see something nice, because Thomas has given and told him so many nice things already. 

 Jamie’s done a few small tricks for Thomas- the kind of thing almost anyone with a couple of years’ training could do- but the specialty that he’s spent the last year and a half mastering is that of fire and flame. Power and control, as Marten has said countless times. Only it seems certain that soft and flowery Thomas has little use for power or control- small things, though, small beauties, small and simple and chaotic little things seem to delight him. 

 “You first, DeCurry,” Marten says now, and Jamie cocks his head at him. “Give... the _Thegn_ a show of your power.” 

 It is not hard to conjure up an image of what power feels like to Jamie. He raises his red right hand and holds it out, toward the dead center of the field, farthest from any of the spectators. A pillar of flame shoots up- high as a boy of ten, high as his adopted father, high as the tall tree with roots overgrown enough to hide the boy from the man, high as the castle where that man is held as a powerful and respected person. The flames burn from red to orange to a brilliant golden-yellow streaked with crimson, twisting in place and growing ever higher. The heat is a welcome warning on Jamie’s skin, on his face- in the corner of his eye, Thomas is gazing up and down at the flame and at the scorched circle of earth beneath it, a hand over his mouth, before turning and looking at Jamie with naked concern. 

 The flame falters slightly, and over it’s roaring and crackling he hears Marten call out, “Now! Show those savages what control is, boy!” 

 It’s a magic meant only to destroy and to warn- and surely, to the other Troitans watching, it’s a warning, just as much as it is a warning to anyone who might look on Jamie’s short, slim stature and think him an easy target-

 -but he does not, just now, with Thomas here and with Thomas’s eyes on him, want to destroy or warn him off. Jamie concentrates, and the flame breaks into tiny, spinning wheels of fire that fall toward the ground and spread toward the spectators, shrinking and becoming more finely-turned until they are an army of bright red-orange roses. There are many gasps of shocked delight, which Jamie pays no heed to. Thomas is gazing at him, completely rapt, eyes and mouth perfectly round circles in his pale face. 

 “An unorthodox method, isn’t it?” Marten asks in a low voice, once the flames all spark out of existence. “Who’s the little show for, then?” 

 Jamie ignores him, lowering his hand. Cuthbert and Roland and Susan are all applauding, and with them Thomas, who keeps excitedly gesturing at Jamie and at the field as he jabbers at Roland. He turns and catches Alain’s eye, and Alain gives him a small, private smile before Jamie goes to rejoin Thomas and the rest of their tet. 

 “That was very lovely, Jamie,” Susan tells him, once he sits, and Jamie gives her a small nod. She is very nice to him, and he does appreciate her kindness- but best of all, he thinks, is that Thomas is no longer miserably nervous. 

 “Lovely, aye, it was! Why, it grew very tall, it did, and then it was so many, and they were all so dear and clever, oh they were, oh yes!” Thomas crows, practically wiggling out of his skin as Jamie sits next to him. “Is it not taxing to do such a great big flame, though? Aye, or to make it into so many roses, then?”

 “Yes,” Jamie says, before his eyes flick to Thomas’s shoulder, where the rose tattoos are hidden under his cloak. “But. Beautiful.” 

 “True enough, beautiful as anything ever was,” Thomas agrees, meeting his eyes with a soft and secret grin. 

 “Yes,” Cuthbert agrees on his other side. “And subtle, too-”

 “Hush, Bert,” Roland murmurs at him, and Bert hushes, leaning forward. 

 “Well, it’s Alain’s turn, of course I’ll be watchful,” he murmurs, but when Jamie glances at him he winks outrageously. Jamie settles in a little more at Thomas's side, and a pair of tiny, gleaming eyes peek out at him from under the shaggy cover of Thomas's cloak. 

 "Dennis," Jamie says, very quietly, and Thomas glances down at him. 

 "Aye, he's a bit intimidated now," he replies, and after a moment Jamie holds his hand up to Thomas's shoulder. Dennis creeps furtively onto his palm and curls up in a trembling ball in the center of his palm, and Jamie gives him a couple of soft pats to soothe him a little.

 In the center of the field- very near the blackened spot over which Jamie’s pillar of flame had sprouted- Alain stands, his hands outstretched. Jamie has done well for himself in the realm of magic, with diligent enough instruction- say whatever else about him, for there is much to say about Marten’s twisting words and careful lies and cruel hands, but Marten has at least provided Jamie with an education of sorts. 

 But Alain is something altogether different- in a completely separate class of his own, which Jamie will admit freely to anyone who asks. Beyond his teachable ability in magic, Alain is also strong in the Touch- stronger than anyone else alive in Gilead, that Jamie knows of. To Jamie, the minds of men are worse than locked doors- they are blank stone walls reaching up to impossible heights. To one such as Alain, not only are the doors unlocked, but they are often gaping open and ajar for him, showing him against his wishes what people think and feel and want and resent. It is no task at all for Alain to aimlessly pluck a fear from a human mind- it is very difficult to do it to so many people, perhaps, but he has been training for this exact sort of thing for years now. 

 The mists that rise up around Alain are a true thing, at least for now- the heat of the day and the glare of the sun will surely dissipate them sooner than later, for Alain will not be concentrating on maintaining them at all, but the important thing is that the mists will linger in the minds of his captive audience.

 Jamie and Alain have been made to practice on one another too many times for Jamie to be caught in Alain’s web- he sees what most of them see and hears what most of them hear, but their fears are not Jamie’s fears, no. It doesn’t always affect animals- sometimes it does but other times it won’t, and Jamie won’t know what the difference is. He covers Dennis’s tiny body with his hand anyway, for he doesn’t want him to see or hear anything that might frighten him, and with any luck his physical presence will keep any of the psychic runoff from seeping into the poor little rat’s mind.    

 “Is a show of weather, then?” Thomas asks distractedly- he keeps glancing to one side, probably because of the sound of whispers and quick, shuffling footsteps rasping through the grass. There is no one at all, of course: it’s just a small thing, easy to lift and spread from mind to mind. Jamie can feel the ghost of pressure at the base of his neck, the faintest suggestion of breath against the back of his skull- at their sides, Roland and Susan and Cuthbert tense, knowing what to expect and hunching their shoulders against the sensation. Around them, other people are wincing and clapping hands to the backs of their necks and glancing furtively behind them, sure of having some face just inches away.

 Thomas does not do these things. Thomas is frozen, his eyes staring straight ahead, his face going pale as he trembles but otherwise doesn’t move.There is something familiar in it; there is something that makes Jamie think of a bad time, of an old time, of being small and frightened and hoping that being silent and unmoving would make him an unattractive target. There is something familiar in it; there is something that makes him think of what Thomas must have been like as a frightened child. 

 For a moment Jamie can imagine the child Thomas was: pale like this, with brown hair like this, with this same long, broad nose and hazel eyes and even tiny little tattoos. He can imagine a boy like this- perhaps even in a place like Gilead, since Jamie cannot imagine what the Troitan lands of Thomas’s birth were like- and he can imagine the boy with his head down and his eyes cast to the floor, slinking through the battered wooden hallways and rooms where Jamie spent the first few years of his life. He can imagine seeing the boy taken into the places where Jamie lived and was put to work, and he can imagine seeing the boy dragged unkindly out of them, always led by the same man- perhaps tall as Thomas is now, perhaps with the same nose and mouth and jaw that Thomas has now. Jamie finds that he does not like to see Thomas frightened, and likes even less to imagine Thomas as a frightened boy. 

 He cups Dennis one-handed and gently puts his other hand over Thomas’s gloved hand. “Not real. Made to frighten.”

 “Ah, aye, frighten,” Thomas says distantly, his voice dreamy and vague. Jamie gives his hand a tiny squeeze, and Thomas blinks at looks down at him.

 “Not real,” Jamie repeats firmly. 

 “Not… real,” Thomas repeats, looking down at their hands for a moment. “No, aye, that’s true. Isn’t real, no. Is only a bad dream.” 

 “Yes,” Jamie says, but uncertainly. “Not real.” Dennis squeaks quietly from his place of safety against Jamie’s chest, and Thomas looks a little more awake, peering down at him.

 “Why, Jamie,” he says- weakly, but no longer sounding as though he’s gone somewhere far away. “Jamie, you’ve been keeping Dennis safe.”

 “He’s a small thing,” Jamie says quietly, and Thomas fumbles a little until he can move his hand and give Jamie a brief squeeze of his fingers. Jamie glances onto the field and sees Alain looking at them, and he Sends Alain nothing in words, just the image of Thomas’s frightened face and the feeling of unhappiness that Jamie felt at seeing it. Alain sends back an even briefer message- not even an image, just a general wave of contrition- and the feeling of being watched by someone close dissipates a little. 

 There is a huge, guttural roar- it is a noise that Jamie and Alain heard once and believed to be a bear. Cuthbert actually jumps, and someone on the other side of the field cries out. Thomas, though, merely puts his head to one side- looking charming as anything, but more importantly not looking terrified out of his wits anymore- and makes a curious face at the sound.

 Thomas shoots Jamie a perplexed half-smile, and Jamie gives him a very slight nod. 

 “Is very clever, to make the enemy’s fear the weapon, aye,” Thomas says quietly, settling himself more closely to Jamie’s side. Jamie finds he doesn’t mind, and even welcomes it. It is comforting, to feel him nearby and know that they are both safe.

 At Alain’s feet, the ground starts to blister upwards, the grassy turf splitting in huge ragged cracks as some huge, round, blackly shining thing rises out of the ground. To most of the onlookers, Alain must seem to disappear in the chaos.

 Thomas’s fingers, entwined as they are in Jamie’s, twitch nervously. 

 “Alain is safe, isn’t he?” he asks softly, and Jamie glances at Thomas’s face.

 “Fine,” Jamie tells him. “Safe.”

 “Oh,” Thomas whispers, breathing out a sigh. “Oh, good, it- it looks a bit dodgy there, it does.”

 “Not real,” Jamie reminds him, as some of the people watching cry out. The monstrous creature bursts out, lifting its long, spindly legs out to crawl further out of the hole in the ground- a spider, the size of a building. Jamie has never seen a spider close-to, for they are usually far too small to see at all if they are near enough to his face, but he is almost sure that a spider shouldn’t have a human face, all soft and pale and baby-round. 

 “Some sort of a big baby, aye,” Thomas says brightly, sitting up a little. “Why, it’s quite darling in the face, isn’t it!”

 Roland, Cuthbert, and Susan all turn to look at him, and Jamie feels his shoulders hunch defensively under their combined gaze.

 “Why, Thegn Grissom, it’s- it’s a giant spider, though,” Cuthbert says weakly. People have started running.

 “It must not really be a spider, as spiders couldn’t get so large without doin’ themselves an injury, aye,” Thomas explains. “So a baby it must be, aye!”

 “Thegn Grissom-” Susan begins, glancing anxiously at the monster on the field.

 “Oh, do call me Tommy, dear lady, for I’d have us be friends,” Thomas says, and she smiles wanly.

 “You’re a very sweet man, Tommy,” she says, and Thomas beams. Something flickers in Jamie’s chest- a warmth at seeing him smile, and a strange bitterness that it’s being directed at someone else.

 “Thankee, Susan. My Ma says so as well.”

 “I should very much like it if you’d join Roland and myself tomorrow for a visit to our friends in the afternoon,” she says. “Presuming you boys won’t all be too busy drafting a trade agreement or something.”

 “Well, I think I’d like that very much, if it will not interfere with what Cuthbert has planned for the day,” Thomas allows, as the baby-faced spider rears back on its hind legs, blocking out the sun. “Say, Alain is very good at this, isn’t he!”

 “Why, you’re practically fearless, aren’t you?” Cuthbert asks.

 “Well, no, but I’m quite unafraid of things that I know couldn’t be, I suppose,” Thomas says agreeably. “Spiders aren’t frightening and a picture of a spider far bigger than the poor dears can grow isn’t frightening at all. I’ll say, though, I shouldn’t like to be faced with a hive of wasps or hornets, though!”

 Cuthbert gives a small smile and a nod, looking distractedly away for a moment- Jamie glances that way, too, and sees that Marten is behaving very curiously. The spiders makes a bellowing, keening noise and rears back again, its great icy-blue eyes rolling in their sockets before fixing themselves on Marten’s dark, cloaked figure, and Marten staggers back, snarls something at Alain too quiet for Jamie to hear.

 The spider bursts into an enormous flock of gray sparrows, which burst themselves into a bright, reflective mist. 

 Alain lowers his hand, still standing in the center of the smooth, unbroken practice field, and the mist sparkles into nothingness as the light and warmth of the early afternoon sun returns. 

 Thomas bounces to his feet, clapping enthusiastically for Alain. “Oh, say, that was very good, Alain!”

 Alain gives him a brief, weary wave as he ambles over to their group, dabbing delicately with a handkerchief at a spot of blood just under his nose.

 “You liked that bit at the end, did you?” Alain asks him, sitting down and allowing Cuthbert to fuss over his nosebleed. “I thought, since Jamie ended his so pretty, I might try and do the same.”

 “Oh, it was very lovely indeed,” Thomas says, sitting back down next to Jamie. “Where in the world did you think of the idea, though, of a baby so large and with a spider’s body to boot?”

 “I didn’t think of it,” Alain says, giving him a small smile. “I reached for the worst fears of everyone watching me and pulled the strongest ones forward, you see. I don’t rightly know which mind it was that thought of such a thing.”

 “That’s a shame, for I’d have a variety of questions for them,” Roland says sternly. His eyes, Jamie notes, are the same icy blue as the vision of a baby monster. 

 “So now what?” Thomas asks, reaching his hand out so that Dennis can trundle onto his open palm and into his cloak. “For though that was very exciting indeed, it has not taken up all the entire of the afternoon, and I’d thought this would be at least another hour.”

 “Well, once Master Cort has finished with his preparations, we four will be called upon to provide a demonstration in shooting, it seems,” Cuthbert says, then, giving Alain a perplexed glance. “I don’t suppose you know what they’ve planned for this, though, do you?”

 “I haven’t been able to suss out what sort of demonstration this is to be, no,” Alain says mildly. “There are a number of official targets from the yearly open trials being moved into place, though. Shooting seems to be the name of the game.” 

 “Oh,” Thomas says, giving Jamie a disappointed glance. “Well, I suppose that’s very interesting as well, but how long is it going to take, do you think? For I’ve just remembered something very interesting I wanted to show Jamie, you see, and I’m apt to forget again if it’s very long.”

 “What could be more interesting than a demonstration of the youngest class of gunslingers in generations?” Roland asks, genuinely perplexed. Susan and Bert exchange a smile, before turning back to Thomas.

 “It might not sound very exciting, Tommy,” Susan says, ignoring Roland’s vaguely injured expression. “But it can be quite thrilling when they move in formation and perform their rally cries with one voice, and my dear husband has a very impressive yell when he wants to.”

 “Oh, I do like a nice loud yell,” Thomas says, settling a little. “That’s alright, I suppose.”

 Jamie motions to one side, and Alain catches his meaning first, turning and standing to greet Masters Cort and Vannay. Jamie, Cuthbert, and Roland follow suit, leaving Susan and Thomas to sit alone and give one another awkward little smiles. 

 “Hile, gunslingers!” Cort calls toward them, stamping the ground with his ironwood staff. “Aye, and you must be Thomas Grissom, then?”

 “Oh- oh, aye, that’s me,” Thomas says, hurriedly pulling himself to his feet with a brief flash of his long thighs. Jamie catches himself looking, and quickly turns away so not to linger on the sight. 

 Thomas offers Cort a hand, and looks deeply confused when Cort ignores it to perform a brief bow instead. “Oh- ah- that’s not- thank you but am not a one for such things, no.”

 “I stand by my ways,” Cort says gruffly, which… is odd. Jamie isn’t sure that he’s ever seen Cort bow to anyone who wasn’t a gunslinger or lord. Master Vannay, at least, behaves normally, politely taking Thomas’s hand for a very short shake. 

 “My name is Abel Vannay,” Master Vannay says, looking Thomas up and down in a way that Jamie does not like. “So are you related to the Jarl of the same name at all?”

 “Oh, aye, me and my sister Vonnie over yonder,” Thomas says, gesturing. Jamie glances in that direction, where Alain’s sister seems to be enjoying herself with Thomas’s sister Siobhan, the discussion on the field far beneath their attention as they speak. 

 “Is that so,” Cort says, and Vannay shoots him a strange look. Cort shoots a beady-eyed glare at Roland and the rest of their ka-tet. “Which of the Troitan lands do you come from?”

 “Up the Cascadian range, near Klamath, sai,” Thomas says, sounding puzzled. “Though mostly haven’t lived there, as we’ve always followed the paths as a family.”

 “Oh, I was there once, long ago! That’s where I met my wife, though she’s gone to the clearing these last sixteen years now,” Vannay says warmly. “It’s a rich and pretty land.”

 “Aye, so tis! My oldest sister lives there still, she does, for she’s not one for the travel,” Thomas says, brightening up. 

 “Thegn Grissom has been telling us quite a bit about his homelands, both the Cascadian place and some of the stops on his family’s trail,” Alain offers in a polite tone.

 “Yes, and some of the spots do sound positively picturesque, there’s been talk of sending up a Gileadan delegation for a summer visit,” Cuthbert adds, and Cort gives a derisive snort. 

 “Well, suppose it is better to plan ahead, as it may be,” he says, waving a hand. “Though with you four so recently returned from your last expedition, seems unlikely you’d be among that group.” 

 Jamie feels a sharp pang of- disappointment, he thinks, or possibly regret. He’d been looking forward to visiting Thomas’s home place, and seeing the soft, quiet places Thomas likes. 

 “Well, I wouldn’t dash anyone’s hopes of a vacation to visit Troi just yet, now,” Master Vannay says briskly, giving his long beard a thoughtful stroke. “That being said, that’s actually not the subject we’ve come to discuss!”

 “No indeed. We’ve heard tell that your parents and some of your cousins came here, along with you and your sister,” Cort says, and Thomas nods a little, looking slightly confused. “We’d like to meet with your parents, when they have a free moment.”

 “Well, my Mum came, aye,” Thomas says warily. “She’d left my Ma at home though, to keep my older brother company, for he’s learning up to inherit off her. Don’t rightly know if she’d want to meet any Canaanite man, though, but I’m sure I could ask her anyway, so I could.” 

 “I beg that you do, Thomas,” Master Vannay says, and Thomas nods slowly. 

 “Thomas,” Cort repeats, and Thomas perks his head to one side. “An unusual name among the Troitans, isn’t it?”

 “I don’t know,” Thomas says slowly. Behind his back, Jamie sees that Alain and Cuthbert are both somewhat unsettled by this line of questioning, too- Roland, for his part, doesn’t seem to think anything is odd or unusual. “Named after my granddad Tom, though, that’s my Ma’s father.” 

 “I see,” Cort says, and he makes to say something else before Master Vannay cuts in.

 “Don’t mind us, young man,” he says, shooting Cort another of those odd looks. “We had a student long ago named Thomas, and meeting you has put us in mind of him, that’s all. Shall we begin?”

 “Oh, a-alright,” Thomas says, stepping back a little. “Am going to… to sit with the Lady Susan, then, aye?”

 “Very good. We hope you enjoy the presentation, Thegn Grissom,” Vannay says, ushering Cort away and motioning for Roland and their ka-tet to follow. As they walk, Cuthbert slows a little to keep pace with Alain and Jamie, his mouth pursed in thought. 

 “You don’t suppose they meant Thomas _Whitman_ just now, do you?” he asks, and Alain makes a soft, vague noise. “Only that wasn’t long ago, was it? We would have been, what, seven years of age when he died?”

 “I might have been eight, but I’m eldest of us,” Alain says musingly, before glancing at Jamie. “He was a classmate of ours, but this was all before you joined the classes.” 

 Jamie makes a small grunt, low in his throat. He supposes he might have heard this before, but it’s never particularly affected him. He’d had bigger things to worry about, at that age.

 “It’s been forever and a day since I thought of him,” Cuthbert reflects. “I wasn’t close to him or his family, though, were you, Al?”

 “No, not at all,” Alain says, stroking his face a bit. “It must have been right on the heels of when Wallace died, though, because I truly don’t recall much about him. Just that he’d been one of the boys of our ka-tel and then one day he wasn’t there anymore, and everyone was quite upset that one of the apprentices died so soon after another. I don’t even think we ever spoke.”

 “Hm,” Cuthbert says, frowning up at Cort and Vannay’s backs.

 “I don’t recall this person in the slightest,” Roland says, after a moment. “Was he sickly?”

 “No, actually, I think- there was some talk that his father’d killed him, possibly. Or his mother.” Cuthbert frowns a bit more. “Though, now that I think on it, his father is still installed in the Whitman homestead- I’d had to send an invitation to your wedding for him, you know.”

 “Did he attend?” Roland asks.

 “I cannot believe you don’t know that yourself,” Cuthbert huffs, and Roland turns and directs a small smile at him. 

 “Why, when that’s what I have you for, Bert?” 

 “ _Well,_ Roland, I-” Cuthbert begins, a darker rosy tinge to his light brown cheeks. Alain snorts at whatever it is Bert is about to say, but ahead Cort stops and glares back at their ka-tet, pointing at a small, careful stack of presentation arms in a long chest next to his feet.

 “Get yourselves in a formation and give them a decent show, then!” he barks. No one grumbles at being interrupted, though Jamie knows that Cuthbert does hate it when Cort does that. Cuthbert and Roland each buckle on a pair of silver-shined six-shooters, though Cuthbert’s presentation is likely to only be with the one. Alain sighs and hefts up an intricately carved handcannon- nearly as long as Jamie is tall, with bright brass dragons against the darker metal of the cannon itself, it probably could take down a wall at the right distance and as far as Jamie knows has never been used for any battle, not even in the old times when monsters and mutants were more common. 

 For himself, Jamie takes up the long, dark rifle with its tiny silver decorations on the stock. He’s practiced drills with it many times before, and the flash of the silver reminds him very much of the silver mist Alain just created in the minds of their onlookers. He thinks Thomas will like it very much, more than the other guns or their drills.

 Alain catches his eye and gives him a small smile, Sending a wave of agreement. Thomas does indeed delight in small and pretty things, and the dance of the silver in the afternoon light will make him very happy. 

 “Gunslingers! To me!” Roland roars, and the three of them snap to formation at once. He calls them through their drills- first a quick turn about, Jamie only mouthing the callbacks. Next they each present their arms- Jamie last, for his rifle is weighted to be twirled and tossed high overhead. As soon as he catches his rifle he glances at Thomas, and is rewarded by the gleefully shocked grin he expects there. 

Jamie sees Susan lean close to whisper something to Thomas, and he nods seriously. He catches Jamie looking his way and beams, waving brightly at him. 

 “Canonnier! Strike!” Roland roars, and Alain goes down on one knee and fires his big, pretty dragon of a gun. The boom knocks all other sounds away for a moment before the sounds of squeals of admiration from the crowd rush back, and a thick plume of gray smoke rises from the barrel of Alain’s gun, another rising from the utterly demolished practice target. 

 “Fusilier! Strike!” Roland continues, and Jamie raises his rifle. He fires three times, and three strike dummies- so far away that at first nobody realizes what he’s shot at- fall in a twinkling of their decorative armor, and there are more sounds of admiration from the crowd- less than Alain got, but people do seem to like big noises. Thomas has his hands on his face, Jamie notes.

 “Chevalier! St-” Roland starts to say, and Cort blows a fiercely piercing whistle through his fingers at him. 

 “Hold fast, lads,” he says, even though by rights they all are men. Roland looks at him, Cuthbert’s arm- already raised with its brilliant gun at the ready- lowering slightly. Cort raises his meaty arm and points at Thomas and Susan, then waves it a bit. “Come closer, Thegn Grissom!”

 Thomas slowly stands and approaches, smiling despite the apprehensive dread he’d been feeling about meeting Cort today. “Why, I think I’ve got quite a good view of things from my spot near the Lady, haven’t I?”

 “Oh, this is not for spectation, Thegn Grissom,” Cort says, fixing his good eye on Thomas’s face. “Call it… an active demonstration.”

 “Oh, aye?” Thomas nods, looking a little confused now.

 “Aye. For you see, these next two gunslingers are the top two of their class- indeed, of the class ahead of theirs, as well! That being said, all of our gunslingers are of a class beyond any other warrior or soldier, even one that’s been fully trained, so their particular talents are not easy to understand when seen next to others of their kind. For the sake of showing just how well-trained and truly talented they are compared to a standard soldier- even one with an elite military background such as yourself- I’d like you to take one of the six-shooters here and shoot yon targets to the best of your ability.”

 Thomas’s face- already very pale- goes even paler. “The best of my ability, sai? Should think you’d might as well have dear Susan or perhaps even my big sister do this, for I’ve not been of a talent with any gun or bah or bow at all, no. I haven’t got the eyes for it, sai, nor the talent of aiming things.”

 Jamie frowns slightly, and near them, Alain and Cuthbert exchange an unreadable look. 

 “Are you not a Thegn in the military entourage of Jarl Grissom?” Cort asks, blinking with a false innocence someone who knows him better would doubt immediately. 

 “Why, y-yes, sai, only- but-” Thomas, who does not know Cort better, looks miserably between Jamie and Roland and Bert and Alain, then back to Cort. “Only, you know, I’ve- my talents lay not in battle, sai, but in the making of great machines and of organizing fighters and supplies. I’ve no- I’ve no skill nor heart for battle-making or hunting or any such thing.”

 “Why, we certainly don’t expect you to be of the same cloth as these four, do we?” Cort asks in a tone that only a stranger would find kindly. “You’ve surely held a gun before and fired one, haven’t you?”

 “Y-yes, sai, but-” Thomas says, his voice and hands shaking. “It’s- someone’s apt to be hurt, aren’t they? For I’m no use at all with a gun, ah no, I am not.”

 “Do not fret on our accounts, Thegn Grissom,” Cort booms, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder. “It is very kind of you to concern yourself so, but you will be shooting towards those wee targets down there, away from any bystanders, and if a bullet does go astray, why, we have a very good doctor in the castle.”

 Cuthbert and Alain- Cuthbert, whose father had come with Cort to remove Jamie from the Doctor’s custody all those years past, and Alain, who can’t help but feel the shape of Jamie’s nightmares sometimes- both bristle. Jamie feels himself going very _flat_ and _away_ and _small._

 Even Roland looks uneasy- Jamie wonders what the Doctor did to him, for it seems most of his fellow gunslingers have _stories_ that he has never been able to hear without fleeing. And Thomas, who has only been here for a short time yet, looks like he may be ill very soon, two high spots of violently pink raising on his otherwise bloodless face. For a moment, he looks frightened- even more frightened than he had on the field, when Alain’s magic was sinking into his brain- and then he gives Cort a shaky smile.

 “Ah, suppose you shan’t take a no, will’ee?” he asks wryly, and Cort smiles and shakes his head. “Well, at least you shan’t be disappointed, eh? For I’m likely to be so bad a shot even your worst gunslinger’d look like a master of his trade, aye.”

 "Cuthbert, your spare, if you will," Cort says, and Cuthbert studies his face for a moment before taking his other gun out of the holster and offering it to Thomas. If it were his family's gun it would be unthinkable- even the apprentice guns that Cuthbert earned the right to wear, Cort would have no right to ask for. The performance guns are technically Cort's, as the guardian of the armory and keeper of the keys. 

 Thomas takes the gun very gingerly, looking dreadful indeed.

 Jamie watches him- is aware, sharply and painfully, of other people watching him, of Cort watching him- and glances down the line towards the show targets. There are enough standing there that there is no barrier to Thomas using one for the demonstration. Thomas is trembling beside him, and Jamie wants very much for this to stop, for the demonstration to be over, for Thomas to be somewhere soft and gentle and calm instead of this place. 

 “Alright, Deschain, call it out,” Cort says, and Roland pauses, glancing over at Thomas.

 “What is Thegn Grissom’s callword, though?” he asks, and Cort turns and considers Thomas for a moment, still smiling that faint, worrying smile. 

 “Hospitaller,” he decides, and Jamie feels himself go even _smaller_ and _flatter_ and _awayer_ . _Hospitaller_ was the title he’d been meant to earn, after he’d been adopted to replace the original boy in their ka-tel. It is a role for a gunslinger who would be trained up, after earning his guns, to be a field doctor and holy man both. 

 The Doctor had made sure to train him a little in the ways of medicine, before- before he’d- before things had been discovered and Jamie had been taken from him and given to Marten to train up instead. 

 No one else of the correct age to replace Jamie as the future hospitaller of his ka-tet had presented themselves to the games in the years since.

 Jamie forces himself to look at Thomas, who has gone very gray in the face. He does not look like he will want to go to dinner after. Distantly, Jamie feels angry that Cort has done this, has taken even such a small thing as dinner with Thomas away, but _only_ distantly, for Jamie is increasingly untethered from himself now.

 “Do you understand, then, Thomas? Start shooting when Roland calls on you to shoot,” Cuthbert says, and Thomas nods faintly. Alain casts an unhappy look at them both, before turning to Jamie. Jamie can feel the questioning tickle of Alain’s mind against his, and he is immediately repulsed- not by Alain, but by the feeling of being touched at all, even only inside his head. 

 “All six shots,” Cort adds, and Roland and Cuthbert both glance at him but say nothing else before arranging themselves in a line, with Roland and Thomas on either side of Cuthbert. Thomas slowly shucks off his wolfpelt; without it, he looks very thin and naked.

 Roland rises his twin six-shooters. Cuthbert raises one, in his right. Thomas- left-handed as ever, Jamie sees- raises his as well, the gun remarkably steady despite the visible tremors in the rest of him. 

 “Hospitaller, strike!” Roland commands, and in the brief silence- heavy and loaded with the absence of sound- Thomas takes one hitching breath. “Chevaliers, strike!”

 Roland and Cuthbert begin firing, and after another moment of frozen shock Thomas begins firing, too. Their shots are all in tandem, so that when their eighteen bullets fly, it is to the sound of six singular booms. Thomas fires thrice in time with them, before squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, tears streaming down his face. He fires a fourth time, his chest heaving as the sounds of Roland’s and Cuthbert’s shots die off. The gun in his hand is still steady. 

 He opens his eyes again, takes a shallow breath, and fires. The gun begins to tremble slightly, and he lowers it, looking like he is moments away from vomiting.

 “Forgot to fire your sixth, Thomas,” Cort says sharply, and Thomas fires the last bullet into the ground, midway to the target. Cort lumbers over to the targets to count their holes.

 “Am not pleased of this, I don’t think,” Thomas says shakily, trying to steady himself and failing. “Am- am havin’ a headache most fierce, aye, of the noise, so- so I do think, that, that I should go home, aye.”

 Jamie nods unhappily, glancing at Thomas’s target with its four perfectly placed bulletholes. Something is happening, and he does not know what, only that it hurts his new friend. 

 He glances over to Cuthbert, who is glaring intently at his own target. He looks at the middle target, with its seven perfectly placed bulletholes.

 “Why, Thomas, four out of six in the target isn’t so bad at all, for one of your training,” Cort calls over to them. “We’ll make a gunslinger of you yet, eh?”

 Thomas bursts into tears, quickly covering his face with the crook of his elbow as he drops the gun with its gleaming silver plating to the grass. “Am- am sorry, no, am a daft old Tommy, I-I must go, for I, for I must, aye, must see to my sister, aye.”

 At the spectator side, Siobhan stands up, and meets Thomas halfway before putting a small arm ‘round his waist and walking him towards the chancery. Jamie puts the rifle back in the heavy wooden box, then thoughtfully bends down to pick up Thomas’s cloak.

 Nestled from within the huge mass of shaggy fur, Dennis gives him a concerned peep. Jamie glances up at Alain and Cuthbert and Roland, and they give him flat, unreadable looks in return.


End file.
